“Hurry, young man,” the president said. “Or I shall die of advanced age before you finish your presentation.”
Machiavelli didn’t flinch. He spoke passionately, though he had been interrupted. “There is the duke of Urbino, Guido Feltra, who was imprisoned in the dungeons of the Orsini due to the captain general’s incompetence—and left there for months, for due to his greed, Juan Borgia would not pay the ransom. And let us not overlook the Spanish commander de Córdoba, who was robbed of both the money and the glory of the conquest of the Orsini. But perhaps more than any other, there is the Count Mirandella. His fourteen-year-old daughter was seduced and used by Juan, who immediately afterward boasted of it to the crowds in the public square. You can understand a father’s shame. And it is his palace that is just opposite the site on the Tiber where Juan Borgia was thrown into the river.”
The president began to doze, and Machiavelli raised his voice to seize his attention. “But there are still more enemies . . . Cardinal Ascanio Sforza could have done it, for his majordomo was slain just the week before. And let us not overlook—the man whose wife he had seduced . . . ” He stopped in a well-choreographed pause, then continued in a voice one had to strain to hear: “His younger brother, Jofre . . . ”
“Enough, enough,” the president said, annoyed. Then, with a clarity remarkable for his age, he argued, “We are concerned only about the threat to Florence from Rome. Juan Borgia, the captain general of the papal army, has been murdered. There is the question of who has murdered him. Some say his brother, Cesare, may be guilty. It is reasonable to assume that if Cesare Borgia is guilty, Florence is in danger. For if this is the truth, he is a patriot filled with ambition, and it follows that he will one day attempt to claim Florence as his own. To put it simply, young man, what we find necessary to know is the answer to the question, ‘Did Cesare Borgia murder his brother?’ ”
Machiavelli shook his head. Then, in a voice both impassioned and sincere, he argued, “I do not believe he is guilty, Your Excellency. And I will state my reasons. The evidence shows that Juan Borgia was stabbed nine times. . . . in the back. That is not the style of Cesare Borgia. He is a warrior, and a strong one, who requires only one thrust to an enemy. And for a man such as Cesare Borgia to claim victory, the battle must be face-to-face. Midnight murders in dark alleys and bodies tossed in the Tiber are actions not consistent with his nature. It is this above all else that persuades me of his innocence.”
For months after Juan’s death, Alexander repeatedly fell into deep bouts of depression. When grief took hold of him, he would retreat to his chambers and refuse to see anyone, or even conduct papal business. Then, once again inspired, he would emerge from his quarters filled with energy, determined to proceed with his mission of reforming the church.
Finally, Alexander called for his chief clerk, Plandini, and dictated his request that the commission of cardinals be convened to bring him their advisements.
Alexander called Duarte and confessed that reform could not stop at the church alone. That he was ready to reform his own life, and that of Rome as well. He needed no authorization, for in this matter he would need only divine guidance.
Certainly Rome needed reform. In all areas of commerce, fraud and theft were common. Robbery, lechery, homosexuality, and pedophilia were rampant on the streets, in every shop and alley. Even cardinals and bishops paraded through the streets with their favorite young catamites dressed in lavish oriental costumes.
Sixty-eight hundred prostitutes roamed through the streets of the city, causing a new medical as well as a moral threat to the people. Syphilis was becoming prevalent; having begun in Naples, it was spread by the French troops, moved northward to Bologna, and was then carried by the army across the Alps. The wealthier Romans, infected with the “French pox,” paid olive oil dealers vast sums of money to allow them to soak for hours in the barrels of oil in order to relieve the pain of their sores. Later, that same oil was sold in fashionable shops as “pure extra-virgin” olive oil. Such travesty!
But Alexander knew he must change the practices of the church itself, and for that he needed the work of the committee. The Holy Roman Catholic Church was a large and wealthy enterprise with an enormous number of accounts. The chancellery alone sent out more than ten thousand letters a year. The cardinal in charge of the financial branch, the Apostolic Camera, was responsible for paying thousands of bills, as well as collecting payments in ducats, florins, and other currencies. The large staff of the curia, which was growing more each year, was salaried, and there were valuable offices to be sold and traded, both legitimate and otherwise.
Yet much had to be considered. Over the years, both the Pope and the cardinals vied for control. Reform would mean the power of the Pope would be weakened while the power of the college of cardinals would be strengthened. This had been the cause of tension between them for over a century.
And so it stood to reason that one of the areas of disagreement would be the number of cardinals ordained. By flooding the college with family members, a Pope could increase his own power. He could, in fact, through them, control the future papal elections, guarantee and protect a family’s interest, and increase its wealth.
Of course, limiting the number of cardinals any one Pope could appoint would give each existing cardinal more individual power, as well as greater revenue—for the benefices of the college of cardinals itself were shared equally.
And so it was that five weeks after its work had begun, the committee that Alexander had commissioned to investigate reform gathered in the Great Hall of the Vatican to report their findings and offer their recommendations to the Pope.
Cardinal Grimani, a short, blond Venetian, rose to speak for the group. He spoke carefully with a well-modulated voice. “We have explored the suggestions of reform from previous papal committees, and considered those we feel are necessary at this time. We will begin with the reforms for the cardinals. It has been decided that we must reduce our earthly pleasures. We must limit the number of dinners at which meat is served. The Bible must be read at each meal . . . ”
Alexander waited, for there was nothing startling here.
Cardinal Grimani continued by proposing to curb all simony and gifts of church property, as well as limiting the income of cardinals—though not the personal income from private or family sources, only from certain church benefices. Since most of the cardinals were wealthy, this would cause no hardship.
Ah, but then Grimani’s recommendations became more aggressive, as Alexander knew they would. “There must be limits to the powers given the Pope,” Grimani began softly. “The cardinals will have approval over the appointment of bishops. The Pope is forbidden to sell or barter any administrative offices without the consent of the college of cardinals. Upon the death of any cardinal now in service, no new cardinal will be appointed.”
Alexander frowned as he listened.
Grimani, his voice lowered now so that the Pope was forced to lean forward and strain to hear, said, “No prince of the church should have more than eighty servants, no more than thirty horses, no jugglers, jesters, or musicians. None should employ young boys as valets. And whatever their rank, all clergy must give up entertaining concubines, or all benefices would be lost.”
The Pope now fingered his rosary beads as he sat listening impassively. These were worthless suggestions, most adding nothing to the good of the soul or the good of the church. Still, he remained silent.
When he finished at last, Grimani asked courteously, “Does the Holy Father have any questions?”
Alexander’s fervor for reform had diminished over the last month; now, having heard the commission’s proposal, it had disappeared completely.
The Pope rose from his throne and faced the committee. “I have nothing to say at the moment, Grimani. But of course I wish to thank you all for your diligence. I will now study the reports carefully, and my chief clerk, Plandini, will notify the commission when I am prepared to discuss the matters present
ed.”
Alexander made the sign of the cross, blessed the committee, and quickly turned and left the hall.
One of the other Venetian cardinals, Sangiorgio, approached Grimani, who was still standing at the lectern. “Well, Grimani,” he whispered, “I doubt that we should rush to make arrangements for a return trip to Rome. I suspect the reform suggested by the Pope is ready to be given last rites.”
Back in his quarters, Alexander called for Duarte Brandao. He was sipping a goblet of strong wine when Duarte entered, and he insisted Duarte sit so that they could discuss the afternoon’s events.
Duarte accepted the wine offered to him, and sat attentively.
“It is unbelievable,” Alexander said, “that human nature consistently goes against itself for lofty principles.”
Duarte asked, “And so you found nothing worth considering in the committee’s report?”
Alexander stood and began to pace, an amused expression on his face. “Outrageous, Duarte. Their suggestions go against all earthly pleasures. To be moderate is one thing, but to be an ascetic? What joy will God feel if we feel none?”
“Of their recommendations, Your Holiness, which did you find the most objectionable?”
Alexander stood and faced Duarte. “My friend, they suggested no ‘concubines.’ As Pope I cannot marry, and therefore my dear Julia would have no place in my bed or at my side. I could never allow that. And even more treacherous, no properties for my children? No entertainment for the citizens? It is nonsense, Duarte, pure nonsense, and I find it worrisome that our cardinals have become so indifferent to the needs of our people.”
Duarte smiled. “Am I to assume, then, that you will not accept the suggestions of the committee?”
Alexander sat again, more relaxed. “I must have been mad with grief, my friend. For a reform of the church in this way would distance a Pope from his children, his love, and his people. And therefore, fewer souls will be saved. We will wait one more month, but then all talk of reform must cease.”
Duarte rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “So you were surprised by the report?”
Alexander shook his head. “Horrified, my dear friend, horrified.”
In the Roman countryside, rumors grew like weeds. And it was said that Providence had exacted the price of Juan’s life because the wicked Borgia brothers, as well as the Pope, had each bedded Lucrezia.
Giovanni Sforza had agreed to the divorce, but not graciously, and so he began to fight the rumors of the reasons for his annulment with his accusations of incest within the Borgia family. Not only had she slept with her brother, Cesare, he insisted, but also with her father, the Pope. The rumors were so scandalous that they enlivened the streets of Rome, and finally Florence as well. Savonarola began to preach with new fervor about the “evil that will befall the followers of the false Pope.”
Seemingly unfazed by all that was being said, Pope Alexander was considering a number of suitors for his daughter. Of all, Alfonso of Aragon, son of the king of Naples, seemed the most desirable.
Alfonso was a handsome young man, tall and blond, with a pleasant, easygoing manner. Like his sister, Sancia, he was illegitimate, but his father had agreed to make him duke of Bisceglie, to give him added income and status. Even more important, Alfonso’s family’s relationship to Ferdinand would unite the Pope and the Spanish king, giving Alexander a tactical advantage in his disputes with the barons and warlords south of Rome.
As Alexander made his plans for Lucrezia, young Perotto carried daily messages to her concerning the divorce proceeding and the ongoing marital negotiations between the Convent of San Sisto and the Vatican.
During this time, Lucrezia and the gentle Perotto became good friends. Each day they shared stories and music, and walked together through the convent gardens. He encouraged her to explore her freedom, for it was the first time in her life that she had not been under the domination of her father, and therefore could be herself.
Lucrezia, still so young, and the charming Perotto held hands and told secrets, and often after they had lunched together on the grass Perotto spent the afternoons weaving gaily colored flowers into Lucrezia’s long blond hair. She began to laugh, to come alive again, to feel young.
On the day Perotto delivered the announcement that Lucrezia was to return to the Vatican to take part in the ceremonial annulment of her marriage in front of the Roman Rota—the highest ecclesiastical court—she was beside herself with dread. As she held the parchment in her trembling hands, she began to weep. Perotto, who had by this time fallen deeply in love with Lucrezia—though he had not yet spoken of it to her—held her close to comfort her.
“What is it, my sweet?” he asked, breaking with his usual formality. “What could cause you such pain?”
She hung tight to him, her head buried in his shoulder. She had told no one except Cesare of her condition, but to be called upon to declare herself a virgin now seemed an impossible feat. If her father or anyone else discovered her true state, the new alliance with Prince Alfonso of the House of Aragon in Naples would be endangered; even worse, she and her brother could be put to death by their enemies, for they had put the papacy itself in danger.
And so it was that Lucrezia, having no one else to confide in, confessed to the young Perotto her predicament. And he, an honorable knight, suggested that rather than admit her relationship with her brother, she should claim that he, Perotto, was the father of her unborn child. There would still be some consequences for her action, but certainly not of the seriousness that a charge of incest would incur.
Lucrezia was both touched and frightened by his suggestion. “But Father will have you tortured, for to endanger the alliance he has planned will weaken his position in the Romagna. Of course the rumors are bad enough without proof, but now . . . ” and she patted her belly, and sighed.
“I am willing to give my life for you and for the church,” Perotto said simply. “I have no doubt that with the goodness of my intentions the Heavenly Father will reward me, no matter what the Holy Father decrees.”
“I must tell my brother the cardinal,” Lucrezia mused aloud.
Perotto with his even temper and good nature said, “Tell him what you feel you must, and I will suffer the consequence all true love must bear. For a gift of such wonder as I have known these past months is worth whatever it may cost.”
He bowed, and took leave of her. But not before she handed him a letter to deliver to her brother. “Make certain it is he who receives this message and only he, for you know the danger should it fall into anyone else’s hand.”
Perotto arrived in Rome, and immediately met with the Pope to inform him that Lucrezia was six months pregnant, and that he was the father of her baby. He begged the Pope’s forgiveness for the betrayal of his trust, and vowed to make amends in whatever way the Pope decreed.
Alexander listened intently to what Perotto had to say. He seemed puzzled for a moment, then became quiet; but to Perotto’s surprise he didn’t appear angry. He simply gave the young Spaniard orders. He instructed Perotto to speak to no one about the situation; there could be no exceptions. He explained that Lucrezia would remain in the convent, where she would bear the child assisted by those brides of Christ who had sworn allegiance to the church and therefore could be counted on to protect its secrets.
But what to do about the infant? Certainly Alfonso and his family must never know the truth. Nor should anyone else but Alexander, Lucrezia, and of course, Cesare. Even Jofre and Sancia could be in danger if this was discovered. And it was understood that even under torture Perotto would not betray this truth.
As Perotto was readying himself to take leave of the Pope, Alexander asked, “You have told no one about this, I assume?”
“Not a soul,” Perotto admitted. “For my love of your daughter has imposed its own silence upon my lips.”
Alexander embraced the young man then, and sent him on his way. “Take care,” he called after Perotto. “I appreciate your candor and your courage.?
??
After his visit to the Pope, Perotto stopped to see the cardinal to deliver the message from Lucrezia. Cesare paled as he read the parchment, then looked at Perotto with surprise. “What is the purpose of this admission?” he asked the young Spaniard.
Perotto, his guitar slung over his shoulder, smiled and said, “Love is its own reward.”
Cesare’s heart was racing. “Have you told anyone?”
Perotto nodded. “Only His Holiness . . . ”
Cesare maintained his composure with difficulty. “And his reaction?”
“He was quite gracious,” Perotto said.
Now Cesare was alarmed. He knew his father was most quiet when he was most angry. “Then go quickly to a place in the ghetto of Trastevere and remain hidden,” he told Perotto. “And if you have any regard for your life, make no further mention of this to anyone. I will consider what to do, and the moment I return from Naples I will call for you.”
Perotto bowed as he left the room, but Cesare called after him, “You are a noble soul, Perotto. Go with my blessings!”
In Rome Lucrezia rose before the twelve judges, seven months pregnant. And even disguised by her loose clothing, the change in her appearance was apparent. But she had made certain to tie her golden hair neatly back in a ribbon, and to scrub her rosy complexion clean. From her months spent in the convent, eating modestly, praying often, and sleeping many hours each night, she looked quite young and innocent.
On seeing her, three of the judges whispered and leaned in to confer. But the vice-chancellor, plump and puffy Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, now waved his hand to silence them. When he asked Lucrezia to speak, her speech, written by her brother Cesare, delivered in Latin, haltingly and with extreme modesty, was so effective that each of the cardinals found himself enchanted by the sweet young daughter of the Pope.