Giorgio said, “It was very dark . . . ”
On further questioning, he admitted that he had heard the voice of one, the master, order the others to throw several stones upon the corpse when his blue velvet cape floated to the surface. And he told them, of course, that one of the horses was white.
But he kept his vow to the cardinal, and never described the man who had spoken, the man who had been there. When the police became more aggressive, asking why he had not reported such a happening, Giorgio replied, annoyed, “I’ve seen hundreds of bodies thrown into the Tiber over these past years. To report each time to the police would leave me no time to fish, nor to eat!”
By noon, divers searched the riverbed from bank to bank with dragging nets and huge grappling hooks. But it was three o’clock before one of the hooks thrown by a local fisherman caught on something solid, and a bloated body floated to the surface, face up, with a blue velvet cloak swirling around in the current.
He still wore his boots and spurs. His gloves were tucked in his belt, and his purse contained thirty ducats, so the motive had not been to rob him. But once he was taken from the water and examined, it was found that he had nine deep stab wounds in his body, and that his throat had been slashed.
Duarte Brandao came to identify the body. There was no question. It was the Pope’s son, Juan Borgia.
Juan’s body was taken by boat at once to the Castel Sant’ Angelo. And on seeing the corpse of his favorite son Alexander fell to his knees, distraught and distracted by grief. He sobbed and sobbed, so that his cries to his God could be heard throughout the Vatican.
When Alexander was able to collect himself, he ordered the funeral to be held that very evening. Juan’s body was prepared and laid out in state, dressed in the rich brocade uniform of the captain general of the Holy Roman Catholic Church.
At six o’clock that evening, Juan, looking handsome and as though asleep, was placed on a magnificent bier and carried by the noblemen of his household across the bridge while the Pope stood alone, watching from the tower of Castel Sant’ Angelo.
The procession was led by 120 torch and shield bearers, followed by hundreds of church chamberlains and ecclesiastics, weeping and in great disorder.
That night, accompanied by a thousand mourners, all carrying torches, borne between lines of Spanish troopers, their unsheathed swords held before them, the procession reached the Church of Santa Maria del Popolo, where Juan was laid to rest in the chapel his mother, Vanozza, had prepared as her own tomb.
Alexander was still in the throes of great grief when, immediately after the funeral, he called for his son Cesare to come to his chambers.
Anxious to be of help to his father, Cesare went at once.
Entering the Pope’s private study, he found Alexander sitting at his desk, his face pale, his eyes rimmed red from weeping. Cesare had only seen him like this once before—when he was a child and Juan’s life was in danger. He wondered in that moment whether prayer could ever change destiny, but rather just postpone the inescapable.
When Alexander saw this son, in the darkness of his dimly lit room, he approached Cesare, positioning his mountainous body just inches away. He was beside himself with grief and rage. He had always known that Cesare had no love for his brother; he understood that Juan had taken the life that Cesare wanted for himself. He’d heard that they had quarreled bitterly two nights before at Vanozza’s, the night Juan disappeared. Now he wanted the truth from Cesare. And he spoke in a harsh, commanding tone. “Swear to me that you did not kill your brother. Swear on your immortal soul. And know if you keep the truth from me, you will burn in hell forever.”
The shock of his father’s accusation almost took his breath away. In truth, he was not sorry his brother was dead. But it was also the truth that he himself did not kill Juan. And yet he could not blame his father for suspecting him.
Cesare moved even closer, locking his eyes with his father’s gaze. He put his hand to his chest, and addressed Alexander with sincerity. “Father, I did not kill my brother. I swear to it. And if I am not speaking the truth, I shall willingly burn in hell forever.” He saw the confusion in the face of the Pope, and so he repeated the words. “I did not kill Juan.”
It was the Pope who looked away first. He sat again then, seemed to collapse into his large leather chair, his hand over his eyes. When he spoke his voice was soft and sad. “Thank you. Thank you, my son,” he said. “As you can see I am desolate over the loss of my boy. And I am enormously relieved by what you have said. For I must tell you—and these are not the words of a grieving father that may be dismissed—that if you had killed your brother, I would have had the limbs torn from your body. Now leave me, for I must pray and try to find some solace in my grief.”
There is a time in every human life when a decision one makes helps carve the path to his destiny. It is at that crossroads, without knowing what lies ahead, that a choice is made which influences all events to follow. And so it was that Cesare chose not to tell his father about the fisherman who found the blue topaz ring—and that he knew his brother Jofre had killed his brother Juan. For what possible purpose could telling him serve?
Juan had brought his fate upon himself. That Jofre was used as an instrument of justice seemed a fit outcome of Juan’s pathetic life. He had contributed nothing to the Borgia family; on the contrary, he had endangered them. And so Jofre’s murder of his brother seemed a fitting penance for the many Borgia sins.
It was not that he was surprised to find his father suspected him, though the impact of Alexander’s doubting his allegiance and love wounded Cesare more than he had imagined it could.
But if Alexander chose to blame him, then that was how it must be, for to strike back at his father with the truth would only wound him more. As the Holy Father, the Pope must be infallible, for it was that infallibility that held his power. In this case, Cesare reasoned, the truth would deny the very quality that was the mainstay of the papacy.
Cesare knew his father doubted him, but would it serve to have his father doubt himself? No, that would weaken him. And in so doing, it would weaken the entire Borgia family. This Cesare could never allow.
And so it was, with Juan’s death, and his decision, that Cesare assumed the mantle of guardianship for Rome, as well as for the family.
Lucrezia was praying before the large marble statue in the chapel of the Convent of San Sisto when she was summoned by one of the young nuns, a nervous young girl from one of the royal families of Naples. There were as many wealthy young women from the aristocratic families of Europe sent to the convents for sanctuary as there were poor peasant girls who had a true religious calling. Both served the church. The families of the wealthy girls paid large sums to the church, and the peasant girls prayed for the salvation of the wealthy.
Now the young girl stuttered as she told Lucrezia that someone was waiting for her with an important message.
Lucrezia, her heart already racing with apprehension, walked as fast as she could, her shoes echoing on the stone pathways of the empty corridors.
She was wearing a simple gray wool dress with a high waist, and over it a plain cotton jumper. Thank God, she thought each morning as she dressed, that the clothes were large and unflattering enough that they hid her belly, which was becoming fuller each day.
A thousand thoughts ran through her mind in the minutes it took her to reach the entrance hall. Was her father well? Her brother Cesare? Had he been unable to live without her these many months, and gone away for good? Or was it just another message from the Holy Father, her father, pleading with her to return to Rome and take up her place again in the court?
She had opened only one of those messages the young page, Perotto, had brought to her. After that she feared it was all the same: her father demanding her obedience, and Lucrezia herself being unable to obey even if she wanted to. It certainly would not serve anyone to show herself in such condition, especially since she knew from young Perotto that her father had ins
isted on the annulment of her marriage to Giovanni on the grounds of impotence. She patted her belly gently as she walked. “And how then will he explain you to everyone?”
The entrance hall was stark and cold, with bare marble floors, windows covered with dark curtains, and several crucifixes hanging on the unadorned walls. When Lucrezia reached it, she stopped, stunned by what she saw. Her brother Cesare, dressed in his ecclesiastical vestments, awaited her alone in the front hall.
She was so happy to see him that she rushed to him, throwing herself upon him, not caring if anyone saw them. But Cesare pushed her away, stood her in front of him and looked at her sternly, his handsome face in a scowl.
“Chez?” she said, almost in tears. “What is it?” She could not believe he had noticed so soon, or heard about her condition from anyone else. But as she stood before her brother, a thousand thoughts running through her mind, he bent his head and said, “Juan is dead. He was murdered in the night.”
Her knees failing her, Lucrezia fell forward, almost hitting the hard marble floor before Cesare caught her. Kneeling next to her, he noticed the paleness of her skin, the small vessels in her closed eyelids more prominent than ever before. He called to her gently—“Crezia, Crezia . . . ”—but she wouldn’t wake. Then, removing his velvet cape, he placed it on the floor and rested her head upon it.
Lucrezia’s eyes fluttered and began to open just as Cesare ran his hand over her belly to soothe her, to wake her. And as her eyes began to focus, all she could see were his eyes.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked.
“It is a terrible nightmare,” she said. “Juan is dead? And Father? Is Father able to bear it?”
“Not well,” Cesare said to her. But then he placed his hand on her stomach and frowned. “There is a change in your condition that I was unaware of.”
“Yes.”
“With Father pursuing an annulment, this has not come at the most fortuitous time. Now no one will believe that swine Giovanni is impotent, and your annulment will not be granted.”
Lucrezia sat up quickly. There was an edge to her brother’s voice; he was displeased with her. She was still shattered by the news of the death of her brother Juan, and now to have Cesare angry with her confused her. “My condition has nothing to do with Giovanni,” she said coolly. “I bedded him once, and that was on a marriage bed.”
Cesare looked angry, “Now what scoundrel shall I slay?”
Lucrezia reached up to touch her brother’s cheek. “This child is yours, my sweet,” she said. “And can it be more bitter?”
He stared silent and thoughtful for long minutes.
Then he said, “I must rid myself of the hat of a cardinal. For no child of mine shall be a bastard.”
Lucrezia covered his lips with her finger. “But no child of yours can ever be mine.”
“We must think, and we must plan,” he said. “Does anyone else know?”
“Not a soul,” Lucrezia said. “For on the day I was certain, I left Rome.”
The Pope locked himself away after Juan’s death. Despite the pleas of Duarte, Don Michelotto, Cesare, and all those who loved him, he refused to eat, or to speak to anyone for days—not even Julia. From outside his chambers his prayers could be heard, and his shrieks of remorse as he begged for forgiveness.
But first he shook his fist and ranted at God. “Heavenly Father, of what benefit is saving the souls of thousands when the loss of this one is the cause of so much pain?” Alexander raged on and on. “To punish me for the loss of virtue, with the life of my son, is unjust. A man is subject to human frailty, but a God is meant to be merciful! ” He sounded as though lunacy had taken hold of him.
Those cardinals whom he favored took turns knocking on the doors to his chambers to beg for entry, to help him in his suffering. But again and again he refused. Finally, a shout was heard throughout the Vatican. “Yes, yes, Heavenly Father, I know—Your Son was martyred too . . . ” And there was silence for two days more.
When Alexander finally opened the doors to his chambers he was thin and pale, but still he seemed at peace. He announced to all who waited: “I have made a vow to the Madonna to reform the church, and I will begin immediately. Call the consistory together so I may address them.”
The Pope proclaimed his love for his son publicly, and told the cardinals in attendance that he would give up seven tiaras to have him back. But because that was not possible, he said, he would instead initiate reform of the church, as Juan’s murder had awakened him and made him all too aware of his own sins.
His anguish was apparent as he talked about his grief, and as he confessed his own wickedness and the wickedness of his family he swore to make amends. He told the entire gathering of cardinals and ambassadors that he understood he had offended Providence, and he asked that a committee be set up to make suggestions for change.
The following day, the Pope wrote to the Christian rulers recording both his tragedy and his new understanding of the need for reform. Everyone was so convinced of Alexander’s intention that there were speeches of sympathy given throughout Rome, and both Cardinal della Rovere and the prophet Savonarola, two of the Pope’s greatest enemies, sent letters of condolence.
And so it seemed a new era was about to begin.
II
13
ALEXANDER WAS STILL in mourning for Juan, and so it was that Duarte came to Cesare Borgia to suggest that once he had crowned the king of Naples he must visit the city of Florence, which had been turned upside down during the French invasion. For now, in order to cement the relationship between the city’s largest lawmaking body—the Signoria—and the Pope, to attempt to reinstate the Medici, and to assess the danger from the prophet Savonarola, someone trusted must be sent to evaluate the truth of the rumors that were reaching Rome.
“It is being said,” Duarte told Cesare, “that the Dominican friar, Savonarola, has become even more inflammatory and influential in these last months, and that he is turning the people of Florence against the Pope—unless there are stringent reforms.” Alexander had already sent an interdict to Florence forbidding the friar from preaching if he planned to continue undermining the people’s faith in the papacy. He had ordered that Savonarola not preach again until he could make his way to Rome to speak with the Pope himself; he had even imposed sanctions on the merchants of Florence to prevent them from listening to the friar’s speeches. Yet nothing stopped the zealous prophet.
Piero Medici’s arrogance had alienated the citizens of Florence as well as the members of his court. And now from the pulpits and in the squares, Girolamo Savonarola’s inflammatory speeches against the Medici had the throngs of people in a fervor for reform. The growing power of the wealthy commoners, who resented the Medici and felt their money entitled them to a voice in the affairs of Florence, added to the clamor and threatened to undermine the power of the Pope.
Cesare smiled. “Can you guarantee, my friend, that I myself will not be slaughtered if I visit Florence? They may wish to make an example of me. I have heard it said that according to the prophet and the citizens of Florence, I am almost as evil as the Holy Father.”
“You have friends there, as well as enemies,” Duarte said. “And even some allies. The brilliant orator Machiavelli is one. During this time of weakness in the papacy, a sharp eye is needed to separate the true from the false dangers to the Borgia family.”
“I appreciate your concern, Duarte,” Cesare said. “And if I am able, you have my word, I will visit Florence when I have finished in Naples.”
“The hat of a cardinal will protect you,” Duarte said. “Even from one as zealous as the prophet. And it might serve us to hear directly of what he is accusing the Pope, so that we may properly refute it.”
Now, fearing that with the loss of the ruling Medici family, and the election of a new Signoria, the Pope would be in greater danger, Cesare consented to go to Florence to see how he could alter the situation to Rome’s advantage.
“As so
on as possible,” Cesare said, “I will do as you ask.”
In Florence, Niccolò Machiavelli had just returned from Rome, where he had gone as an emissary for the Signoria to investigate the murder of Juan Borgia.
Machiavelli stood in the enormous room of the Palazzo della Signoria, surrounded by extraordinary tapestries and priceless paintings. Giottos, Botticellis and many other treasures donated by the late Lorenzo the Magnificent decorated the room.
Sitting in a large red velvet chair among the eight members of the Signoria, and fidgeting nervously, the aging president listened intently as Machiavelli prepared to report what he had discovered.
All of the members dreaded the prospect of what they would discover, about both Florence and themselves. For though they were often impressed by this young man’s ability to present an argument, they were also concerned by the degree of concentration they must maintain in order to fully understand his presentation. They could not rest their eyes for a moment.
Machiavelli was slightly built; he looked even younger than his twenty-five years. Now, with his body dramatically wrapped in a long black cloak, he paced up and down in front of them as he spoke. “All of Rome believes that it was Cesare Borgia who murdered his own brother. But I do not. The Pope himself may believe it, but still I disagree. Certainly Cesare Borgia had a motive, and we all know the relationship between the brothers was at the very least strained. It is said they nearly fought a duel on the night of the murder. But still I say no.”
The president waved his withered hand impatiently. “I don’t care a Tuscan fig what Rome thinks, young man. In Florence we make up our own minds. You were sent to assess the situation, not to bring back gossip that could be heard on any Roman street.”
Machiavelli remained unflustered by the president’s attack. With a sly smile, he continued. “I do not believe Cesare Borgia killed his brother, Excellency. There are many others who had strong motives. The Orsini, for one, who are still bitter over the death of Virginio and the attack on their fortresses. Giovanni Sforza, due to the divorce proceedings over the Pope’s daughter, Lucrezia.”