12
VANOZZA CATTANEI’S GUESTS sat at the gaily colored banquet tables and watched the blazing sun descend over the red stone ruins of the Roman Forum. She had invited several friends, as well as her children, to her country estate for a gathering in celebration of Cesare’s departure for Naples the following week as the papal delegate.
Vanozza’s Vineyard, as her children affectionately called it, sat on the nearly deserted Esquiline Hill opposite the stately fifth-century Church of San Pietro.
Juan, Jofre, and Cesare sat together for once, laughing and enjoying themselves. Then Cesare noticed his mother, across the courtyard, talking quite intimately with a young Swiss guard. He smiled to himself, for she was still quite beautiful. Though she was tall she was delicately built, with clear olive skin and rich auburn hair that as yet showed no silver. She looked splendid in a long black silk dress adorned with a single strand of South Sea pearls, a special gift from Alexander.
Cesare adored his mother, was proud of her beauty, intelligence, and obvious skill in business. For she was as successful with her inns as any man in the city of Rome. He looked again at the young guard, and in his heart he wished his mother well, for if she could still enjoy an active love, that is what he wished for her.
On this night, Vanozza brought in two senior chefs from her inns in the city to prepare a large variety of delectable dishes. They sautéed savory goose liver with sliced apples and raisins, simmered freshly caught lobster in a delicate tomato, basil, and cream sauce, and pan-fried tender veal scallops with rich truffles taken from the earth and fresh green olives plucked ripe from the local trees.
Some of the younger cardinals, including Gio Medici, shouted with enthusiasm as each new platter was served. Cardinal Ascanio Sforza remained sedate, but managed to help himself to more than one serving of each new dish, as did Alexander’s cousin, the cardinal of Monreal.
Large porcelain carafes of wine, made from the plump burgundy grapes of Vanozza’s own vineyards, were served during the meal, and Juan drank each goblet that was poured for him, hardly waiting for the first to be emptied before he lifted the next to his lips. During the meal, a very thin young man wearing a black mask sat down alongside him and whispered something in his ear.
Cesare had seen the masked man at the Vatican several times during the last month in the company of his brother, but when he had inquired about the stranger, no one seemed to know him. And when he asked Juan, Juan just laughed sardonically and walked away. Cesare assumed the young man was an eccentric artist from one of the city ghettos, where Juan often went to bed whores and squander his money.
Now, with his tunic unbuttoned and his hair matted with sweat, Juan stood up shakily—for he was quite drunk—and prepared to make a toast. He raised his goblet and held it before him, tipping it so the wine began to spill. Jofre reached to help steady it, but Juan roughly pushed him away. Then, with slurring speech, he turned to Cesare and said, “Here’s to my brother’s escape from the French. To his skill at avoiding danger wherever it arises. Whether it be by wearing a cardinal’s hat or fleeing the French. Some call it daring . . . I call it cowardice . . . ” and he began to laugh loudly.
Cesare leapt to his feet, his hand on his sword. He started for Juan, but his old friend Gio Medici grabbed him, and, with the help of Jofre and the pleas of Vanozza, succeeded in holding him back.
Vanozza pleaded with her son. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying, Cesare. He doesn’t mean it.”
Cesare responded with blazing eyes and a set chin. “He knows, Mother, and if it were not your home, I’d kill the insolent bastard at this very moment—though he is my brother and your son.”
Still shaken by his fury, Cesare allowed Gio to guide him back to his seat. The guests, their enthusiasm tempered by the discord of the brothers, sat now in quiet conversation.
Then the masked man stood, and once again whispered something to Juan. And Juan, sobered by his brother’s anger, rose more steadily and announced, “You must excuse me, for I have another appointment I must honor.”
Helped into his dark blue velvet cloak by his page, he quickly left the party accompanied by one of his squires and the tall masked man.
Soon afterward the rest of the party disbanded, and Cesare left with his brother Jofre, Gio, and Ascanio Sforza. As they rode away on horseback, Cesare waved good-bye to his mother, Vanozza, who was left with the young Swiss guard for company.
The men rode swiftly toward the city. Once they passed through the gates of Rome—at the crossroads in front of the Borgia Palace—they talked for quite a while about the incident with Juan. Cesare made it known he could not tolerate his brother’s drunken arrogance and lack of family loyalty. He was determined to speak to Juan again, to impress upon him the seriousness of the incident at Vanozza’s. He wanted to reason with Juan first, but if he had to, he would challenge him to duel to settle things once and for all. Juan knew that in a duel, Cesare was the more skilled, and Juan would be forced to repent his ridiculous conduct—not only with Cesare, but with all those others he had injured, bringing scandal upon the entire Borgia family.
Cesare also knew that it was Juan, not he, who was a coward, no matter his reckless accusations. In any battle, of wills or swords, Cesare would prevail.
Cardinal Ascanio Sforza complained as well—for only a few nights before, when Juan was again drunk, he had slain Ascanio’s majordomo, unprovoked. Ascanio was still displeased about it, and swore that if he had not been wearing the red hat of a cardinal, and did not fear retaliation from the Pope, he himself would have settled the debt with Juan.
Sixteen-year-old Jofre never said a word against Juan, yet Cesare knew he was angry at his brother, for he was not ignorant of Sancia’s relationship with Juan. He was a puzzle, this younger brother. At first, because his expression was so bland, he seemed less than bright. But Cesare had witnessed his transformation in the presence of de Córdoba that night in the garden, and would never see him in the same way again.
After they bid Ascanio good night, and Gio Medici left for his palace, Jofre told Cesare, “I think I will pay a visit to the ghetto and spend a few hours with a woman who will respond to my affections.”
Cesare smiled at him, and slapped his shoulder with encouragement. “You’ll get no argument from me, little brother,” he said, laughing. “Have a pleasant night.”
Cesare watched as his brother rode away. It was then that he witnessed something that aroused his concern. As young Jofre turned the corner toward the ghetto, three men on horseback slipped out from between the stone buildings behind him and appeared to follow him. One man, taller than the rest, rode a white stallion.
After waiting a few moments so they would take no notice of the gallop of his own horse behind them, Cesare rode to the square above the ghetto. Before him, several streets away, stretched the shadows of four men on horseback, his brother Jofre among them. He could hear them talking, their voices friendly and high-spirited. Convinced that his brother was in no danger, Cesare turned his horse around and returned to the Vatican alone.
Cesare had been asleep for hours when a frightful nightmare woke him. Was it the sound of horsemen? He tried to shake himself awake, but the lantern in his chambers had burned out and his room was dark as pitch.
Sweating, with his heart beating fast, he tried to calm himself, but nothing seemed to ease the panic he felt. Blindly, he stood and searched to find a match to strike, but his hands were unsteady and his mind was filled with irrational fears. In a terror, he called aloud for his manservant. But no one came.
Finally, without explanation, his lantern flickered and there was light again. Still half asleep, he sat back on his bed. But now dark shadows surrounded him, reaching toward him from the walls. Cesare wrapped a blanket around himself, for he felt cold as ice, and could not control the shivering of his body. Then, from nowhere, he heard the voice of Noni in his ears: “There is death in your house . . . ”
He tried to shake the feeling,
to dismiss the voice, but his mind was filled with dread. Could Crezia be in danger? No, he reassured himself. A convent was a safe place for her to be—her father had seen to that, by sending Don Michelotto to set a guard around the convent, carefully hidden so as not to alarm or enrage Lucrezia any further. Next he thought of Jofre. But remembering the sound of his voice with his companions, Cesare was reassured.
Juan? God knows, if there was any justice in the heavens, danger to Juan would cause him no nightmares. But then Cesare was seized with worry concerning his father. What would become of him if anything happened to Juan?
Cesare dressed quickly and approached the Pope’s chambers. Standing before his father’s room, two soldiers of the Holy Guard stood at attention, one on each side of the heavy metal doors.
“Is the Holy Father resting well?” Cesare asked, struggling to maintain his composure.
It was Jacamino, his father’s favorite manservant, who answered from the anteroom. “He was sleeping only moments ago,” he said. “All is well.”
Cesare returned to his own chambers. Yet his restlessness persisted, and there was nothing left for him to do but ride out into the country, as he always did when the beat of his heart threatened to burst through his skin. He raced to the stables, and he was about to mount his favorite stallion when he saw Jofre’s horse being rubbed down by one of the grooms. He noticed thick red river clay on the horse’s shoes.
“So my brother Jofre has returned safely home?” Cesare asked.
“Yes, Cardinal,” the young boy said.
“And my brother Juan? Has he returned?”
“No, Cardinal,” the young boy said. “Not at this time.”
Cesare left the city with a sense of foreboding. He did not know what he was looking for, but still he rode as though possessed by a demon. Everything around him appeared as though in a dream. It was in this altered state of mind that he rode through the country along the riverside, looking for his brother Juan.
The night was cool and damp, and the smell of salt from the Tiber cleared his head and calmed him. He searched the shores for evidence of disorder, but found none, and after a few hours of riding he reached the red clay of the riverside. Across from one of the large fishing docks there stood the palace of Count Mirandella, and a hospital with lanterns flickering in the windows. Still, all seemed quiet.
Cesare dismounted, looking around for someone who could have seen his brother. But both the dock and the shore seemed deserted, and the only sounds he heard were the splashing of the fish as they leapt through the shimmering glasslike surface of the river.
Cesare walked to the end of the dock and stood looking across the water. There were a few fishing boats anchored there, and the crews were either out at one of the local pubs in the village or deep asleep in the bowels of the boats. He thought how it might be to live as a fisherman, when the only thing to do each day was to throw a net and wait for the invited fish to come. He smiled then, feeling more at peace.
He was about to turn and leave when he noticed a small boat moored against the stack of timber logs, a man asleep inside. “Signor? Signor?” Cesare called.
As he walked toward the boat, the man sat up and looked at him warily. “I am Cardinal Borgia,” Cesare said. “And I’m inquiring about my brother, the captain general. Did you observe anything that would cause you suspicion earlier this night?”
As Cesare stood talking to the fisherman, he spun a gold ducat between his fingers.
Seeing the coin, the man, whose name was Giorgio, was persuaded to talk freely to Cesare.
After half an hour, before he took leave of the fisherman, Cesare thanked him and handed him the gold piece. “No one must know we have spoken,” he said. “I count on you for that.”
“I have already forgotten, Cardinal,” Giorgio vowed.
Cesare rode back to the Vatican. But he told no one what he had learned.
Pope Alexander awakened earlier than usual, with a feeling of uneasiness. He had called a meeting to review the military strategy that would be used in the upcoming battles, and was convinced that his discomfort might have arisen from his anxiety over their outcome.
After kneeling for morning vespers, praying for divine guidance, he arrived at the meeting to find only Duarte Brandao in attendance.
“Where are my sons, Duarte?” the Pope asked. “It is time to begin.”
Duarte dreaded what he must tell Alexander. He had been awakened before dawn by a manservant of the captain general, who told Duarte that his master had not returned from his dinner at the vineyard. Even more ominous, the squire who had accompanied him was also missing.
Duarte had reassured the servant, instructing him to go back to the captain general’s apartments, and inform him when the Pope’s son arrived. But Duarte felt something strange in the air, and was unable to return to sleep. After lying awake for long moments, he finally got out of bed, dressed quickly, and before the golden light of day cut through the black night sky he rode through the streets of Rome, asking in the ghetto if anyone had seen Juan Borgia. But no one had.
When Duarte returned to the Vatican, he immediately woke Cesare to ask when Juan was last seen.
“He rode away from the party with his squire and the masked man,” Cesare said. “He was meant to be returning to the Vatican. His squire was instructed to make certain he arrived, for he was still quite intoxicated.”
“I have been unable to find the squire who accompanied him,” Duarte told Cesare. “And I, myself, have searched all of the city looking for Juan.”
“I will dress immediately,” Cesare said. “In the event my father has need of me.”
But Duarte noticed, as he left Cesare’s apartments, that Cesare’s boots were still wet and covered with fresh red mud.
After several hours more, Alexander became increasingly upset about Juan’s absence. He paced back and forth within his chambers, golden rosary in hand. “That boy is impossible,” he told Duarte. “We must find him. He has much to answer for.”
Duarte tried to reassure the Pope. “He is young, Your Holiness, and the city is filled with pretty women. He may be passed out in some bedroom in Trastevere that we have not yet discovered.”
Alexander nodded, but then Cesare entered with sinister news. “Father, Juan’s squire has been found, mortally wounded, and it seems the wounds inflicted are so dreadful that he is unable to speak.”
“I will go to this man, and ask about my son,” the Pope said, “for if this man can speak to anyone, he will speak to me.”
Cesare’s head was bowed, and his voice was low. “Not without a tongue, Father.”
The Pope felt his knees weaken.
“And he is too wounded to pen this information?” the Pope asked.
“He cannot, Father,” Cesare said. “For he is without fingers.”
“Where was this squire found?” the Pope asked his son.
“In the Piazza della Giudecca,” Cesare said, “and he must have lain there for hours, in front of hundreds of passersby, who in their fear did not report the incident.”
“And there is still no news of your brother?” Alexander asked, now, sitting down.
“No, Father,” Cesare said. “There has been no word.”
After they rode throughout Rome gathering information from the captains of the Holy Guard, the commander of the Spanish force, and the Swiss Guard, as well as the foot police in the city, both Cesare and Duarte returned to the Vatican.
Alexander was still sitting silently, his golden rosary beads now clutched tight between his fingers. When they entered the Pope’s chambers, Cesare looked toward Duarte Brandao. He felt it would be kinder to his father to hear the most recent news from a trusted friend.
Duarte stood next to the Pope and placed a strong hand on his shoulder to help brace him. “It has in these last moments been brought to my attention, Your Holiness, that the captain general’s horse has been found, wandering with one stirrup cut by what appears to be a sword.”
/> The Pope felt his breath taken away, as though he had received a sharp blow to the stomach. “And the rider?” he asked softly.
“No rider was found, Father,” Cesare said.
Pope Alexander lifted his head, his eyes clouded, and turned to Cesare. “Call together the Holy Guard and have them search the streets and the countryside outside Rome. Tell them they are forbidden to return until they have found my son.”
Cesare left, as he was asked, to instruct the troops. In the hallway to the palace he passed his brother Jofre. “Juan is gone,” Cesare said, “and Father is desolate. I would speak very carefully if I were you, and under no circumstances allow him to know your whereabouts last evening.”
Jofre nodded to his brother, and said, “I understand.”
But he offered nothing more.
Rumors spread throughout the city about the Pope’s son Juan: that he was missing, and that the Pope was in severe distress, threatening dire punishment if it were found that he had been harmed.
Storefronts were boarded up and shops shut down as Spanish soldiers ran through the streets with swords drawn. The enemies of Alexander, including the Orsini and the Colonna, fearing they would be blamed, also took up arms. Runners were sent into all the alleys in the city of Rome to search, and all soldiers were threatened with death should Juan not be found.
Early the following morning, the police awoke a fisherman they discovered sleeping on his boat. His name was Giorgio Schiavi, and he claimed that on the night of the party he had seen four riders, one of them masked. He had watched from his boat as a fifth horse was brought forward—a body draped across its back—and led to the place in the Tiber where the filth of the city was dumped. There the body was lifted from the horse, and heaved into the river.
The police asked, “What did these men look like? What can you tell us?”