With a coy smile, Lucrezia said, “He may have what you want, Chez, but he doesn’t have what you have . . . ”
“I know that, my sweet,” he said, kissing her nose. “I do know that, and it is my salvation.”
Juan Borgia arrived in Rome to great celebration. He rode through the streets poised on a chestnut bay mare draped in a cloth of gold; in his hands he held the reins of her bridle, encrusted with fine jewels. He wore a rich brown velvet suit and a cape studded with precious emeralds. His dark eyes glittered with power, and his lips were set in the insolent smile of an already conquering hero.
When he reached the Vatican, the Pope embraced him, greeting him warmly. “My son, my son,” Alexander repeated, making his way into the Hall of Popes, where he had called a meeting to map the strategy for the papal army.
Long hours were spent in discussion of military tactics with Guido Feltra, Alexander, Juan, Cesare, and Duarte Brandao in attendance.
The gatherings continued for three days. Cesare noticed at these meetings that Duarte seldom addressed Juan directly; if he had a suggestion he addressed it to the Pope, and used Juan’s title, “Captain General,” rather than his name. It was the first time that Cesare suspected Duarte Brandao’s displeasure, and it was so subtle that he was certain only he had noticed.
But that evening, after the final session, as Alexander sat alone with Duarte Brandao, he asked, “You believe it is a mistake to have my son Juan lead our troops against the Orsini?”
Duarte answered with both cleverness and respect. “I believe it is a pity that, by accident of the order of birth, a prince by nature must become a warrior and a true warrior must become a cardinal.”
“But, my friend,” Alexander asked, “do you not believe in destiny? In the plans of our Heavenly Father? In the infallibility of the Pope?”
Duarte Brandao said with good humor, “Who can know of the Heavenly Father’s plan, and are we as mortal men not subject to an occasional error of interpretation? Even the most honorable and virtuous of us?”
“Duarte,” Alexander said, “Pedro Luis, bless his soul, was my firstborn. Cesare is my second son. It is the custom that the second son is called to service in the Holy Church. That plan holds no error in interpretation, for it keeps the power of the royal families in check and yet allows them the advantage of special benefices from our Holy Father. And is a man’s destiny not always both a gift and a burden? For who of us must not struggle with his own free will when praying, ‘Thy will be done, Dear Lord, not mine’?”
Duarte’s good-natured laughter rang out through the great hall. “Your Worthiness, forgive me. And it is with both awe and admiration that I present my point. How can one be certain that your young warrior, Cesare, is but your second son? Your attractiveness to women is legendary, and your vigor of heroic proportions. It is difficult for me to believe that there are not some others, hidden by their mothers, and hidden from you . . . ”
At that, Alexander began to laugh. “You are a brilliant advisor, and a diplomat as well,” he said. “And if the young cardinal’s destiny is to be a holy warrior, the time will come that your argument will serve us. But for now it is Juan who is the captain general, and he must lead our troops. And so, for the present time, we must bend our knees and pray for victory.”
Twenty-one-year-old Cesare, standing outside the Hall of Popes, clothed in the garments of a cardinal, overheard this conversation, and for the first time in memory he felt a certain hope. Was it possible that above all the treachery in the world, there truly was a heaven and a Father who had heard? He walked back to his apartments, his head filled with imaginings, for the first time daring to anticipate the day when he might be called upon to lead the troops of Rome.
Captain General Juan Borgia, and the condottiere Guido Feltra, led the papal army north from Rome toward the first of the Orsini castles. Though the Orsini were fierce soldiers, at this first bastion they were stunned by the sheer number of papal troops, and so the first two castles fell without a battle.
When the news was brought to Duarte, he met with Alexander. “I suspect this is a plan of the Orsini, to trick our new commanders into believing that this will be an easy victory. Only then will the Orsini show their true abilities.”
Alexander nodded. “Then you have little confidence in Feltra?”
“I have seen the Orsini in battle . . . ” Duarte said.
Cesare had been called by Alexander, for his father knew his skill in strategy. And now the Pope asked him, “You may speak the truth. To what do you ascribe the greatest danger in this situation?”
Careful to keep his emotions in check, Cesare responded with caution. “I fear that Feltra is not more skilled at military matters than the captain general. And I anticipate that this easy victory will place both off guard—leading to disaster at Bracciano, for there the Orsini will assemble their finest warriors. And there della Rovere will inspire them to think it a holy war, which will make them even stronger.”
The Pope marveled at this son’s assessment of the situation, but he did not yet know how accurate Cesare was. For it was not more than a few days before the Orsini resistance stiffened, and della Rovere, the most dangerous enemy of the Pope, called upon the distinguished artillery commander Vito Vitelli to raise an army to rescue the Orsini.
Vitelli’s army moved quickly and descended upon the papal army at Soriano. There both Juan and Guido Feltra proved hopelessly incapable, and the papal forces suffered a stunning defeat. Guido Feltra was captured, taken prisoner, and thrown in a dungeon in one of the Orsini castles. Juan fled, escaping serious injury with only a cut to his face.
Hearing of this, and reassuring himself that his son was not badly hurt, Alexander again called Cesare and Duarte into the Hall of Popes.
“The war is not lost,” Duarte reassured him, “for we have other resources available to us.”
Cesare added, “And if the Holy Father determines we are in serious danger, he can always call in Gonsalvo de Córdoba’s experienced Spanish troops from Naples . . . ”
But after meeting with the ambassadors of Spain, France, and Venice—all of them urging peace—Pope Alexander, always a diplomat, agreed reluctantly to return the surrendered castles to the Orsini. Of course, they must be made to pay a price for this arrangement. After much negotiation, the Pope accepted fifty thousand ducats. For, after all, such compensation was necessary to fill the coffers of the Holy Catholic Church.
The outcome seemed a victory for the Pope. But when Juan returned, he complained bitterly that he had been stopped from his future conquests and deprived of the properties he would retain by Alexander’s agreements. Therefore, he argued, it was he who deserved the fifty thousand ducats for his embarrassment. To Cesare’s dismay, Alexander yielded.
But there was even more serious a problem, in Cesare’s mind. In order to repair his reputation, Juan insisted on being assigned the task of retaking Ostia from the French army left there by King Charles.
Cesare rushed to his father’s chambers to plead with him. “Father, there are only a few French troops left, I know that. But if there is a way to lose, Juan will, and with his defeat will come the damnation of the papacy and the Borgia family. For della Rovere is there, setting a trap, waiting for just such folly.”
Alexander sighed. “Cesare, we have been over this time and again. Do you think your father such a fool that he cannot see what you can? This time I will assure a victory. I will call on Gonsalvo de Córdoba—for there is no better captain in the world.”
Cesare’s voice was filled with frustration. “That will not stop my brother. He will interfere. He will struggle with de Córdoba—you know he will. I beg of you, Holy Father, rethink your position.”
But Alexander was adamant. “Juan will do no such thing. I have sent explicit instructions. He will simply ride out of Rome as the head of papal forces, and when the battle is over and we have won, he will ride back in victory, accompanied by the waving Borgia flag. Between those two
shows of splendor he will give neither orders nor suggestions.”
Juan obeyed his father. He rode out of the city on a spirited black charger, waving his cap to the crowds of Roman citizens who lined the streets along his way, and as he had been ordered, he played no role in the well-directed battle for Ostia.
Gonsalvo de Córdoba’s men quickly overthrew the French garrison and conquered the city of Ostia, without any interference. And Juan rode back into the city of Rome, just as he had left it, this time to the cheers and shouts of victory from the throngs of Roman citizens lining the streets.
Three nights later at the Palazzo Borgia, Cardinal Ascanio Sforza held a huge ball to which he invited many important guests, including Alexander’s children. Also in Rome at the time were the Medici brothers, Piero and Gio, Cesare’s friend from the University; the Medici had been driven from their homes in Florence by the French, and the preachings of Savonarola.
Cardinal Sforza’s massive palace had been the home of the Borgia while Rodrigo was still cardinal, but it was given as a gift to Ascanio when he became Pope. Everyone agreed it was the most beautiful palace in all of Rome.
That night Cesare returned to his father’s former home with his friends, with whom he had spent the night before eating, gambling, and drinking in the city.
The walls of the vast entrance hall were hung with elaborate tapestries, thick with rich threads that brought the many great moments of history to life. Off this hall were many rooms also hung with intricate tapestries, their floors covered with priceless oriental carpets in colors that matched the velvet and satin seat coverings and complemented the ornately carved wooden cabinets, dressers, and tables.
But on this evening the great hall had been made into a ballroom, with a small orchestra playing from the mezzanine to accompany the many fine young couples as they danced.
Cesare, who was in the company of a beautiful and popular courtesan, had just finished dancing when Gonsalvo de Córdoba approached him. De Córdoba, a strong and always serious man, looked particularly disturbed on this night. He bowed in greeting and then asked Cesare if they might speak in private.
Cesare excused himself and led the Spanish captain to one of the open balconies on which he had played as a child. The balcony overlooked a private courtyard; beneath it several guests were milling around, talking and laughing while they ate hors d’oeuvres and drank the thick red wines being offered on bright silver trays by the servants.
But the merriment of the night was offset by the disposition of de Córdoba, whose usually pleasant face was contorted with anger. “Cesare, I am more furious with your brother than you can know. More than anyone can know.”
Cesare put his hand on the captain’s shoulder in a gesture of friendship and reassurance. “What has my brother done now?” he asked.
The captain’s voice was hoarse with tension. “Do you understand that your brother had no hand in the fighting at Ostia?”
Cesare smiled broadly. “Yes, I assumed that, dear captain. For we won.”
“And are you aware that Juan has been taking credit, claiming victory for this conquest?” Cesare listened with a sympathetic expression as the captain fumed on. “Juan describes it everywhere he goes, saying it was he—not even we—who put the French to flight.”
“He is an empty-headed braggart,” Cesare said, “and his claims are ridiculous. There is no one in Rome who would believe him. But let us reason what can be done to correct this terrible injustice.”
Gonsalvo, still furious, would not be mollified. “In Spain, I would certainly challenge him to a duel. But here . . . ” and he stopped to catch his breath. “Did you know that arrogant fool has actually commissioned the casting of a bronze medal to be distributed in his honor?”
Cesare frowned. “A medal?” he repeated, surprised. He had heard nothing of it.
“It will bear his profile. Beneath it, in elaborately carved letters, the inscription will read, ‘Juan Borgia—Victor of Ostia.’ ”
Cesare was tempted to laugh at his brother’s absurdity, but restrained himself in order not to inflame Gonsalvo further. Then he said, “There is not a soldier in the papal army, and certainly not one of the French troops, who does not know the truth. That you, Gonsalvo de Córdoba, and only you, are the victor of Ostia.”
But the Spanish captain would not be consoled. Instead, he turned to Cesare with a look of rage. “Juan Borgia? Victor of Ostia? We will see! I should kill him. I may still . . . ” Then he turned and walked away from the balcony back into the palazzo.
Cesare remained for several moments after de Córdoba’s departure, staring into the dark night sky, and wondered how it was that he and this one they called his brother could have emerged from the same womb. It was a trick of fate, he was certain. But just before he turned back to enter the ballroom, something in the courtyard caught his attention.
Below him, standing around the central fountain and speaking in voices too low for him to hear, Cesare saw his brother Jofre talking to the Spanish captain and a younger man, tall and lean. De Córdoba was listening intently, fully engaged, while the younger man seemed to be looking around the courtyard as though searching for someone. But it was Jofre, usually so amiable and apathetic, who most startled Cesare. For on his face he wore an expression of ferociousness that Cesare had never before seen.
Cesare thought of calling out to them, until he felt a hand on his arm. Standing behind him, his finger to his lips, Don Michelotto pulled Cesare back from the ledge of the balcony to a place where they would not be seen. Hidden in the shadows, they watched for several moments until they saw the captain smile and shake young Jofre’s hand. When Jofre reached for the hand of the younger man, Michelotto noticed a large, irregularly shaped blue topaz ring, which glistened in sharp shards caught by the light of the moon. He pointed it out. “Take notice, Cesare. For that man is Vanni, an Orsini nephew.” And then, just as quickly as he had appeared, Michelotto was gone.
Inside the palazzo again, Cesare walked through the rooms trying to find Jofre, but he seemed to have disappeared. He nodded at his sister Lucrezia, who was dancing with that fool husband of hers, Giovanni; nearby, completely unaware of the chaos he was causing, Juan was dancing with his sister-in-law, Sancia. Both were laughing and having a wonderful time. But what concerned Cesare most was de Córdoba as he left the ball—for suddenly he seemed at peace.
11
LUCREZIA HAD COME to join her father and brothers for the Easter festivities at the Vatican, and so she was in her apartments at her Palace of Santa Maria in Portico when Giovanni Sforza’s chamberlain came to her with an urgent message. Her husband had requested that she accompany him back to Pesaro, the man explained, for he found his stay in Rome oppressive and desired to escape the Pope’s vigilance.
Lucrezia listened, upset, as Julia began choosing some of Lucrezia’s things for her maidservant to pack. She had been incredibly lonely in Pesaro; here in Rome, she finally felt herself again.
“What am I to do?” she asked aloud as she paced. “In Pesaro, as in Rome, the duke seems not to care a goose’s egg for me; when he looks at me, it is with anything but affection. Yet now he wants to leave, with me at his side.”
Julia walked over to console her.
The chamberlain cleared his throat to summon his courage and asked for permission to speak. When it was granted he continued. “The duke of Pesaro indicates he is quite fond of the duchess. He longs for her company—if not in conversation, then just to be with him in his own duchy, where he is free to rule as he likes.”
“Well, my good man,” Lucrezia said, “that is his desire, and he wishes to have it his way. But what will become of me if I return? I will wither and die of loneliness. There is nothing to interest me in Pesaro.”
Impatient with Lucrezia, for she knew the torment it would cause Alexander, Julia excused herself and left the room.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and Lucrezia heard her brother’s voice calling. “Crezia, it’s
Chez. May I enter?”
Quickly she ordered the chamberlain to conceal himself behind her dressing screen. She warned him not to move or make a sound, for his carelessness could cost him his life. Her brother’s dislike for the duke had enraged him of late, and she didn’t want another scene.
The little man moved silently behind the screen and covered himself with one of Lucrezia’s robes, placing other garments over his head to hide himself completely should Cesare walk too close or choose to search his sister’s chambers.
When Cesare entered, the first thing he did was kiss Lucrezia. He seemed pleased. “Father has decided to grant your wish for a divorce. He is quite certain that that swine Giovanni Sforza has not given us an advantage, and now that Milan is again aligned with the French, he is of no use to us. Also, and even more important, Father is displeased that he has not made you happy.”
Lucrezia sat on the divan and offered Cesare a seat next to her. But he refused, and walked around the room instead.
“But what will you tell Giovanni?” she asked him. “How shall a divorce be accomplished? He is not a heretic, and has committed no treason except to cause me unhappiness . . . ”
Cesare smiled. “And is that not crime enough?” he asked.
Lucrezia’s eyes lit up with amusement. “Though I think it the most heinous, I fear it will not be seen through the same eyes by others.”
Cesare became more serious. “Father will not chance a legal divorce. It would cause too great a scandal. He has ordered that Giovanni must be made to vanish.”
Lucrezia stood and frowned at her brother. “Chez, you cannot allow that. Giovanni is a brute and a bore, certainly. But much of my unhappiness with him is that he is not you! And though that too is a crime, it is not one that deserves the punishment you suggest.”