Cesare dismounted and put his arms around the old woman, holding her gently for fear her brittle bones would break.
“What can I do for you, my son?” she asked.
“I need your help,” he told her. “An herb that will put a large man to sleep for many hours, but do him no harm. It must be tasteless, and colorless as well.”
The old woman cackled and reached up to touch Cesare’s cheek affectionately. “A good boy. You’re a good boy,” she repeated. “No poison? Not like your father . . . ” she muttered. Then she cackled again, and her face wrinkled like a thin sheet of brown parchment.
Cesare had known Noni all his life. It was rumored throughout Rome that she had been his father’s wet nurse in Spain, and that Alexander felt such affection for her that he had brought her to Rome and provided her with this small cottage in the countryside and a garden in which to grow her herbs.
For as long as anyone could remember she had lived alone, yet no one had disturbed her—not even the night bandits or gangs of unruly street vandals who sometimes wandered out into the countryside to sack and pillage the weak and helpless villagers. It was a wonder that she had survived so long. And yet, if other rumors were to be believed, Noni had far greater protection than even the Holy Father. For it was also said that in the dark of night, a strange howling could often be heard coming from her house—and not only when the moon was full. And this much Cesare knew to be true: never did she have to hunt or shop to eat. For dead birds and small animals seemed to appear at her doorstep or in her garden fresh and ready for her pot.
Cesare seldom heard his father speak of her, and then it was with warmth and kindness. But each year, ceremoniously, Alexander came to this cottage in the far countryside to be bathed by Noni in the small clear pond at the back. Those who had accompanied him stood far away, but all swore they heard the sound of wild winds and flapping wings and saw a great spiraling of stars.
There were other stories, too. Around his neck Alexander wore an amber amulet that Noni had given him when he was a young cardinal, and once when it was lost he had become frantic. That very afternoon during a hunt he fell off his horse, hit his head, and lay unconscious for hours. Everyone thought he would die.
On that day, all the servants in his castle and many cardinals searched for the missing amulet, and after many promises and fervent prayer it was found. Alexander recovered, and as soon as he was able he had a strong lock placed on a thick gold chain by the Vatican goldsmith, on which to hang the amber amulet. Later he had the lock soldered so he could never remove it. He swore it protected him from evil, and there was no one who could convince him otherwise.
Now Noni walked slowly inside as Cesare followed her. On several small spikes lining the walls of the darkened cottage there were ribbon-tied bunches of herbs of all kinds. From one of these bunches the old woman carefully pulled off some leaves, and with her knarled and crooked fingers wrapped around the stone pestle she placed the leaves in a mortar and mashed them into a fine powder. This she put in a small sack and handed to Cesare. “That is the horielzitel plant’s great secret,” she told him. “It can induce a dreamless sleep. You need only one pinch for a man, but here I have given you enough for an army.”
Cesare thanked the old woman, and embraced her again. But as he mounted his horse, she put her hand on his arm and cautioned, “There is death in your house. Someone young. Protect yourself, for you too are at risk.”
Cesare nodded and tried to reassure her. “Death is always at hand, for we live in dangerous times.”
8
CESARE, RIDING WITH the French cavalry, watched the well-disciplined troops chew up vast chunks of territory, stopping only to conquer hostile castles as they carved a path toward Naples with the military precision of a gigantic scythe.
Although Cesare was meant to be a hostage, he was treated with great respect by the soldiers and loosely guarded even at night. During the long days his love of the field was apparent, and he watched the French commanders plan their military tactics and studied their strategies. Here on the battlefields he was not a cardinal but a warrior, and for the first time in his life Cesare felt at home.
If Cesare’s only interest was his own, he could have been content to ride with the French until they had conquered Naples. But both as a son and as a prince of the Holy Church, he had other matters to consider. He knew that despite Pope Alexander’s pact with King Charles, his father did not want the French or any foreign power to control even the smallest fiefdom of Italy. He was certain that as he rode through these fields on his way to Naples, Alexander was meeting with the ambassadors of Spain, Venice, Milan, and Florence, attempting to put in place a Holy League of city-states to resist foreign aggression in Italy.
He also knew that even as he rode with the French to Naples, Spain was preparing ships and readying troops to stop them. And if by some chance French troops did reach Naples, and Charles’s army managed to withstand the attacks by the ferocious and bloodthirsty Neapolitan troops long enough to conquer Naples and overthrow King Masino, Pope Alexander, backed by King Ferdinand of Spain with the help of Venice, could recover the crown and force the French to withdraw.
But there was one very difficult consideration. All of this could be accomplished if—and it was a troubling if—if Cesare’s life was not at stake. Now that he was a hostage, he felt that his father might hesitate, might even refuse to consider taking action against the French because of him. Of course, the solution was obvious. He must escape. But the question of Djem still remained. Could he take him? Would he agree to go?
Over the last several days, Djem himself had appeared to be enjoying his situation as a French hostage. In fact just the night before Cesare had heard him talking to the troops, drinking with them and excitedly planning to help overthrow his own brother, the sultan. It would not be an easy task to convince Djem to return with him to Rome, and it would be a danger to confide in him.
Now, Cesare examined his options: a double escape would double the danger, and he could not afford to fail. Djem was in no danger from the French, for alive he had value as a means to compromise the Pope, and if Alexander and Spain failed in their plan, he would certainly be a help to Charles in his Crusade. Dead, of course, he would have no value at all. And so Cesare made his decision.
That night, near midnight, he stepped outside his tent. Two guards—young men he was familiar with, for they had spent many nights together—were sitting on the ground around a small campfire.
Cesare greeted them. “It is a beautiful night. Clear and crisp, is it not?” When they agreed, he pretended to study the skies. “A full moon,” he said, “and yet I hear no howling . . . ” Then he laughed so they would understand he was being playful.
One of the young men held out a flask and offered it to him. But Cesare shook his head. “I have something better,” he said. And he stepped back into his tent, returning with a bottle of fine red wine and three silver goblets.
The eyes of the soldiers glimmered in the moonlight as he handed them each a goblet and poured one for himself.
The men toasted each other in the dark, outside the tent, gazing together at the stars. But within a short time the two young men began to yawn. Cesare bade them good night and walked inside his tent, where he returned the small brown sack Noni had given him to its hiding place and sat to wait.
Within twenty minutes Cesare peered outside the tent to find both guards in a deep sleep.
Then, fully dressed, he slipped silently through the long row of tents to the place the horses were tied. There another guard sat with his back toward Cesare, watching the sleeping troops. Cesare silently slipped behind him, putting his hand over the guard’s mouth to make certain no sound escaped. Then he quickly applied a headlock, and with his forearm placed heavy pressure on the soldier’s throat and neck. Within moments the young man lost consciousness.
Cesare found his horse, a swift, strong black stallion, and carefully walked him to the edge of the encampment
, trying not to make a sound. There he mounted the stallion, riding bareback as he had done so many times before at Silverlake. Once he reached the roadway, Cesare flew through the night toward Rome.
The following day, after a bath and change of clothes, Cesare was led into his father’s study. Alexander rose to greet him with tears in his eyes. And when the Pope embraced him, it was with such strength that Cesare found himself surprised.
Alexander had true affection in his voice. “Cesare, my son, you can’t imagine my torture these last days. You saved me from the most terrible choice of my life. Once I had gathered the members of the Holy League, I knew that Charles would consider it a breach of our agreement, and so I feared for your safety. For one of the few times in my life, I was tormented by indecision. Was I to stop my plans for the league and sacrifice our territories and the papacy? Or was I to move forward, at the risk of my dear son’s life?”
Cesare had seldom seen his father so distressed, and he found himself amused. “And what did you decide?” he asked playfully.
“It hardly matters now, my son,” Alexander said, smiling gently. “For you are safe and so have solved my dilemma.”
King Charles’s reaction to Cesare’s escape was milder than the Pope had expected. And once Alexander learned the outcome of the king’s Neapolitan campaign, he understood why.
The French troops had succeeded in occupying Naples; King Masino, without a struggle, had abdicated and fled. King Charles had won. He had overcome the first obstacle to his conquest of Jerusalem and the overthrow of the Infidel. And he had little interest in dampening his mood by worrying over Cesare’s escape. All he wanted now was to enjoy the beauty of Naples, the food, the women, the wine.
But with Cesare free, Alexander moved quickly to put in motion his plans for the Holy League. Now that King Ferrante was dead, and there was no longer any threat of Naples invading Milan, Il Moro was willing to align with Rome again. Troops from Milan and Venice began to gather in the north: they had plans to join the Spanish, whose ships would land below Naples, and move up the Italian peninsula.
Alexander, seated on his throne, called Cesare and Duarte Brandao to his chambers to review his military strategy and plans for the Holy League.
“Are you not concerned, Father,” Cesare asked, “that King Charles will consider it a terrible offense that you have broken your word about Naples?”
Alexander looked puzzled for a moment, then frowned. “Broken my word?” he said. “What are you speaking of, Cesare? I vowed not to interfere with his conquest of Naples. Not once did I say I would allow him to keep it.”
Duarte smiled. “I doubt the young king is able to grasp that subtlety.”
Cesare continued. “So it is your plan that the forces of the Holy League should cut off the escape route, so that the French army will be crushed between the Spanish in the south and the troops from Venice and Milan in the north? Father, that is to be caught between a hammer and an anvil.”
Duarte asked, “And if the French army makes it past the Spanish and Neapolitan troops to Rome?”
Alexander was thoughtful. “If they escape our troops in the south and find their way to our city—if only for a few days—they could still do considerable damage. They would certainly sack the city . . . ”
Duarte said, “And, Holy Father, this time I have grave doubt that King Charles would stop them . . . ”
Cesare thought a moment, then made a suggestion. “Charles must realize that if he wishes to reclaim Naples, he must convince you to break your alliance with the Holy League. He also must be crowned by you and receive your blessings, for you are the suzerain.”
Alexander was impressed by his son’s analysis, yet he felt there was something Cesare was not saying. “And, my son, your strategy would be?”
Cesare smiled slyly. “If the French king finds Your Holiness here in Rome as he retreats, he might seize the opportunity to force you to make concessions. But if you are elsewhere . . . ”
When the French advance guard entered the city, they reported back to Charles that the Pope had gone north to Orvieto. King Charles, determined to convince the Pope to do his bidding, ordered his army through Rome and on to Orvieto. But when Alexander’s scouts spotted the French advance guard approaching Orvieto, Alexander was ready. Before long he and his envoy were on the road, racing to Perugia, where he would meet with Lucrezia.
From Orvieto, Alexander had already sent Don Michelotto to accompany his daughter back across the mountains, for he had not seen her in several months and needed to reassure himself of her well-being and talk to her about her husband. The Pope felt it would be pleasant to have Lucrezia’s company; it would help pass the time while he waited for the outcome of the French invasion.
King Charles entered Orvieto anxious to convince Alexander to sign another treaty. But frustrated by the news that the Pope had moved on to Perugia, Charles angrily ordered his army out of Orvieto and on to Perugia.
Suddenly on the road ahead he recognized one of his advance guards. The soldier, breathless, stammered with the news that troops of the Holy League, in serious numbers, were concentrated in the north. Charles had to change his plans. Then he received another piece of bad news. His new ally, Virginio Orsini, had been captured by Spanish troops. They were now moving south, right behind Charles.
Charles could waste no more time in pursuit of this elusive Pope. The trap he had feared was about to be sprung, and his army was its prey. With not a moment to spare he pushed his troops mercilessly toward the Alps in a series of forced marches. They arrived just in time. As it was, his troops had to fight Holy League infantrymen with pikes in order to cross the border to safety.
King Charles, badly shaken and defeated, was going home to France.
9
NOW THAT ROME was temporarily quiet, the Pope traveled to Silverlake for a necessary respite. And he immediately sent for his children to join him there for a family celebration.
Lucrezia came from Pesaro; Juan came from Spain without his Maria, Jofre and Sancia left Naples to be part of the festivities. Again, the Borgia family was together. Julia Farnese and Adriana would arrive within the week, for Alexander planned to spend the first few days with his children and wanted no distractions.
At Silverlake Rodrigo Borgia had built a majestic stone villa, a hunting lodge with stables for his prize horses, and several small cottages to house the women and children who often accompanied him when he fled the choking summer heat of the city. Pope Alexander loved to surround himself with beautiful women dressed in finery, and to listen to the sound of those delicate creatures laughing happily. And so, with their husbands gone to far-off places, many of these young court pretties accompanied him, some with their children. The bright faces of the children, so new and untarnished, filled him with a sense of hope.
His entourage of noblemen and their wives, men and ladies in waiting, servants and palace cooks to prepare the lavish meals to be served, together with the members of his court, numbered more than one hundred. There were musicians and actors, jugglers and jesters, all to assist in those comedies and performances that the Pope so enjoyed.
Pope Alexander spent many days sitting alongside the lake with his children. During those peaceful times, he often regaled them with tales of the great miracles that occurred as sinners from Rome came to bathe themselves in the waters of the lake to wash away their sinful desires.
Years before, the first time he told these stories, Cesare had asked, “Did you too bathe in the waters, Father?”
The cardinal smiled. “Never,” he’d said. “For what sins have I committed?”
Cesare laughed. “Then I, as my father, have no desire to bathe.”
Lucrezia looked at them both and said slyly, “I suppose neither of you have need of a miracle?”
Rodrigo Borgia had thrown his head back and laughed with pure joy. “Quite the contrary, my child,” he said. And then with his hand to his mouth, he whispered, “But I’ve a greater need for my ear
thly desires at the moment, and live in horror of them being washed away too soon. There will come a time. But not while the hunger in my belly for the fullness of life is greater than the hunger in my soul for salvation . . . ” He blessed himself then, as though fearing sacrilege.
Now, each day began with an early morning hunt. Though the Pope was forbidden by canon law to hunt, he quoted his doctors as saying that he must have exercise. To himself, he reasoned silently, he did other things that were forbidden, most of which he enjoyed less than hunting. When chastised by his valet because he wore boots that made it impossible for his subjects to show their respect by kissing his feet, he joked that at least it prevented the hunting dogs from taking off his toes.
Surrounding the hunting villa, a hundred acres had been sealed off by fences composed of wooden poles and thick sailcloth, forming an enclave in which the game naturally congregated. Before each hunt, pound after pound of raw meat was stacked near the wide gate of the pen for use in leading the animals to their fate.
Just as dawn was breaking, the hunters gathered. Once they drank a cup of strong Frascati wine to thicken their blood and fortify themselves, Alexander dropped the papal banner. With trumpets blaring and the sounding of drums, the gates of the game pen were opened. A dozen gamesmen raced inside to scatter a trail of raw meat, and the animals rushed through the gates to what they thought was freedom. Stags, wolves, boars, hares, porcupines—all were met by the hunters. Wielding spears and swords—even battle-axes for the more bloodthirsty—the hunters chased down their prey.
Lucrezia and Sancia, with their ladies-in-waiting, were secure on a raised platform so that they could watch the slaughter in safety. Women at the hunt were meant to inspire and encourage the hunters, but Lucrezia, disgusted, hid her eyes and turned away. Something within her recoiled at the similarity between the destiny of those poor trapped animals and her own. Sancia, on the other hand, saw no deeper meaning in the display; she gloried in the spectacle as was expected of her, and even gave her silk handkerchief to her brother-in-law, Juan, to be dipped in the blood of a slain boar. For though not as skilled as Cesare with weapons, Juan had a taste for cruelty and a need to impress that made him the most dedicated hunter in the family. He made a show of courage by standing his ground when a huge boar charged, and then slew it with a spear and hammered it with his battle-ax.