Still seated before them, as they conferred with each other, Lucrezia raised her linen handkerchief to her eyes and began to shed brokenhearted tears. “You will pardon me, Your Excellencies, if I may beg one more indulgence of you.” She lowered her head, and when she raised it again, to look at the cardinals, her eyes were still shiny with tears. “Please consider what my life will be, without babies to hold and care for. And will you sentence me to live without knowing the passion of a husband’s lovemaking? Would you impose upon me a curse that is not my own? I beg of you, in all your goodness and mercy, please spare my life by annulling this unfortunate marriage—that by its very nature must remain loveless.”
Not one objection was raised when Ascanio, turning to Lucrezia, pronounced her, loudly and firmly, “Femina intacta!” A virgin. By that evening, she was on her way back to the convent to await the birth of her baby.
When Perotto arrived at San Sisto to bring Lucrezia the news that her divorce was final, and that the negotiations for her marriage to Alfonso, duke of Bisceglie, had been concluded, she felt tears well up in her eyes.
“After the birth, my baby will be taken from me,” Lucrezia told Perotto sadly as they sat in the convent garden. “And I will not be permitted to see you again, for in a very short time I will again be married. So this is both a happy day and a sad day for me. On the one hand I am no longer married to a man I dislike, but on the other I will lose both my child and my dearest friend.”
Perotto put his arm around her to comfort and reassure her. “Until the day I reach the heavens, I will hold you in my heart.”
“And you in mine, my good friend,” she said.
As Cesare prepared to leave for Naples, he and Alexander met in the Pope’s quarters to discuss the situation of Lucrezia and her baby.
Cesare spoke first. “I believe, Father, I have solved the problem. Immediately after the birth, the infant can be brought to live in my apartments, since yours or Lucrezia’s are out of the question. I will issue a statement that the child is mine, and that the mother is a married courtesan whom I prefer not to name. They’ll believe that, for it suits the rumors of my character.”
Alexander looked at his son with admiration and smiled broadly.
Cesare asked, “Why are you smiling, Father? Is that so funny not to be believable?”
The Pope’s eyes shone with amusement. “It is quite funny,” he said, “and believable. I am smiling because I, too, have a reputation that fits the situation. And today I signed a bull—not yet made public—referring to the child as the “Infans Romanus” and declaring that I am the father. Also by an unnamed woman.”
Alexander and Cesare embraced, both still laughing.
And Alexander agreed that to declare Cesare the father of the child was a better solution. He then promised that on the day of the baby’s birth, he would issue another bull, declaring Cesare the father of “Infans Romanus.” And the original bull declaring Alexander as the father would be hidden away in a Vatican drawer.
On the very day that Lucrezia gave birth to her baby, a healthy baby boy, Alexander had the infant taken immediately from San Sisto to Cesare’s home while Lucrezia was left at the convent to recover. It was agreed that later Lucrezia would claim him as her nephew, and raise him as her own. But there remained a dangerous loose end for Alexander—one more detail that required careful handling.
Though he felt some regret, he knew what he must do. He sent for Don Michelotto. An hour before midnight, the short, powerfully built man with a chest like a barrel stood at the door of his study.
The Pope embraced Michelotto as a brother and told him of the crisis that had befallen them.
“It is the young man who states he is the father of this child,” the Pope said. “A fine young Spaniard, a noble young man . . . and yet . . . ”
Don Michelotto looked at Alexander and placed his fingers to his own lips. “Not another word need be spoken,” he said. “I am at the service of the Holy Father. And if this good soul is as fine as he appears, then there is no question that the Heavenly Father will greet him with great joy.”
“I have considered exiling him,” Alexander said. “For he has been a loyal servant. But there is no way to know what temptation in life will force his tongue loose, and cause the fall of our family.”
Don Michelotto’s expression was one of sympathy. “It is your duty to keep him from temptation, and it is mine to help in any way I am able.”
“Thank you, my friend,” Alexander said. And then, hesitating, he added, “Be as kind as possible, for he truly is a good lad, and to have been seduced by the wiles of a woman is understandable.”
Don Michelotto bowed to kiss the ring of the Pope and then took his leave, assuring him that the task was as good as done.
Michelotto slipped into the night and rode with haste across the fields and out into the countryside, over rough paths and hills, until he reached the dunes at Ostia. From there he could see the small farm, with its tiny patches of odd vegetation, its rows and rows of rootlike vegetables, and a number of beds filled with strange herbs and tall bushes laden with purple and black berries and exotic-looking flowers.
Michelotto rode around to the back behind the small cottage. There he found the old woman doubled over, resting heavily on a hawthorn stick. Seeing Michelotto, she raised it, and squinted her eyes. “Noni,” he called, soothingly, “I’ve come for some medicine.”
“Go away,” the old woman said. “I don’t know you.”
“Noni,” he said, coming closer. “The clouds are thick, tonight. I am sent by the Holy Father . . . ”
She smiled then, a wrinkled mask. “Ah, so it is you, Miguel. You’ve grown older . . . ”
“It’s true, Noni,” he said, chuckling. “It’s true. And I’ve come to ask for your help to save another soul.”
Standing next to her now, towering over her, he reached for her wicker basket to carry it, but she pulled it back. “Is this an evil man you wish to send to hell, or a good man who stands in the way of the church?”
Don Michelotto’s eyes were soft when he said, “He is a man who in any case will see the face of God.”
The old woman nodded, and beckoned to him to follow her into the cottage. There she studied several of the herbs hanging on her wall, and finally carefully chose one wrapped with the sheerest silk. “This will place him in a gentle dreamless sleep,” she said. “He will not struggle.” Before she handed it to Michelotto, she sprinkled it with holy water. “It is a blessing,” she said.
As the old woman watched him ride away, she bowed her head and made the sign of the cross upon her chest.
In the ghetto of Trastevere, the owner of a dingy tavern had difficulty waking a drunken patron at closing time. The young man’s blond head was resting face down on his arms and he had been in that position since his companion left an hour before. The proprietor tried to shake the man awake, more vigorously this time, and his head fell from his arms. The tavern owner, seeing this, pulled back in horror. The young man’s face was bloated and blue, with purple lips and bulging eyes, blood red, but most shocking was his tongue, so swollen it protruded from his mouth, making his handsome face that of a gargoyle.
Within minutes the police arrived. The tavern owner remembered little of the young man’s companion, just that he was short and barrel-chested. He could be any of a thousand Roman citizens.
But not the young man. Several citizens of the city identified him. His name was Pedro Calderon, and he was called “Perotto.”
14
ON THE DAY Cesare Borgia crowned the king of Naples, he received an urgent message from his sister. It was brought by her secret messenger and handed to him when he was walking alone on the castle grounds. He was to meet her at Silverlake within a few days, it said, for she must speak to him before either of them could return to Rome.
Cesare spent that evening at the lavish coronation celebration. All the aristocracy of Naples was there to meet him, including many beautiful women
, fascinated by his good looks and easy charm, who surrounded him in spite of his cardinal’s robes.
He visited with his brother Jofre and sister-in-law Sancia, and noticed that Jofre seemed to be walking with a different, surer step since Juan’s death. He wondered if anyone else noticed. Sancia, too, had changed. She was still flirtatious, but seemed more willing to please, a little less spirited than she was before.
It was Jofre who, during the evening, introduced him to a tall, handsome young man who would impress Cesare with his intelligence and courtliness. “My brother, Cardinal Borgia, this is the duke of Bisceglie, Alfonso of Aragon. Have you met?”
When Alfonso reached for Cesare’s hand, Cesare found himself intrigued by the look of the young man. He had an athletic build, but his features were so fine and his smile so radiant that one could no more keep from staring at him than from studying a beautiful painting.
“It is my honor to meet you,” Alfonso said, bowing, and his voice was as pleasing as his appearance.
Cesare nodded his head in acknowledgment. And for the next several hours the two men excused themselves from the crowd to walk through the gardens and become familiar with each other. Alfonso’s intelligence matched Cesare’s own, and his sense of humor was refreshing. They discussed theology, philosophy, and of course, politics. By the time Cesare said his farewell he felt a certain fondness for the young man, and so as they parted, he said, “I’ve no doubt you are worthy of my sister. And I am certain she will be happy with you.”
Alfonso’s blue eyes glittered. “I will do all in my power to see that it is so.”
Cesare found himself looking forward to meeting his sister at Silverlake. It had been months since he and Lucrezia were alone together, and now that she had recovered from childbirth he found himself thinking about making love to her again. He wondered, as he rode as quickly as he could, what it was she had to tell him. He had not heard a word from his father or Duarte in recent weeks, and so he suspected it was something more personal than political.
Arriving at the lake before she did, he took a moment to stand back and gaze upon the clear blue of the sky, enjoying the peace of the countryside before going inside the cottage. There, after bathing and changing his clothes, he sat, sipping a goblet of wine, and reflecting on his life.
So much had happened of late, and yet he knew even more was meant to happen in the near future. He was determined, once he had returned to Rome from Florence, to ask the Holy Father to relieve him of his duties as cardinal. He could no longer bear the hypocrisy that the cardinal’s hat imposed on him. He knew that convincing the Holy Father would be a formidable task, that it would add tension to their already strained relationship. Since Juan’s death, instead of growing closer, his father had seemed to be drifting away from Cesare.
Cesare was filled with ambition and passion; he wanted to live his life to the fullest. And yet he felt thwarted. Now that his sister was to be married again, he found himself struggling. Alfonso was an honorable man, one he liked, and though he wanted the best for Lucrezia, he found himself feeling jealous. Now his sister would have children she could love and claim as her own. As a cardinal, his children would be denied—or worse yet be bastards, as he was. He tried to calm down, to talk himself out of his feelings, chastising himself for his shortsightedness. Cesare reminded himself that Lucrezia’s betrothal to the son of the king of Naples was a great alliance for the church and Rome. Yet he grew impatient, full of frustration that the course of his life had been decided by mere accident of birth.
The Pope, too, had always enjoyed his life; he felt genuinely fulfilled by his mission in the church, and the saving of the souls of humanity. But Cesare struggled with believing, and felt no such passion. Spending his nights with courtesans rarely brought him pleasure; all at once he found he wanted more. Jofre and Sancia seemed happy, with their material luxury and commitments to court life. And even his brother Juan had certainly had a good life—one of freedom, riches, and distinction—until at last he was defeated by the death he deserved.
By the time Lucrezia arrived, Cesare was sullen. But once she rushed into his arms and he smelled her hair again and felt her warm body against his, all his discontent began to disappear. It was only when he pushed her back to look at her, to see her face, that he noticed she’d been crying.
“What is it?” he asked her. “What is it, my love?”
“Papa killed Perotto,” she said. She hadn’t called him Papa for years, since she’d been a child.
“Perotto is dead?” Cesare said, stunned by the news. “I instructed him to hide until I returned.” He took a deep breath, and asked softly, “Where was he found?”
Lucrezia held tight to her brother. “In the ghetto. In a tavern in the ghetto. A place where he would never go.”
And Cesare realized that even as he tried to help Perotto, he was already too late. They talked together then about the sweetness of the man, his willingness to sacrifice himself for love. “He truly was a poet,” Lucrezia said.
“His goodness makes me feel ashamed,” Cesare said. “For were it different, I could not count upon myself to make the choice he did, though I do love you.”
Lucrezia spoke with clear-eyed certainty. “There is justice in the heavens, I’ve no doubt. And his courage will be honored.”
Hours passed as they walked by the lake, and more hours as they talked by the roaring fire in the cottage.
Later they made love. And it was better than ever before. They lay together for a very long time, before either of them was willing to break the bond of silence, and then it was Lucrezia who spoke first. “Our baby is the most beautiful cherub I have ever seen,” she said, smiling. “And he looks just like . . . ”
Cesare leaned on his arm and looked into his sister’s clear blue eyes. “Just like who?” he asked.
Lucrezia laughed. “Just like . . . us!” she said, and laughed again. “I think we will be happy together, even if he is your son, and can never be mine.”
“But we are most important,” Cesare reassured her. “And we know the truth.”
Lucrezia sat up then, wrapping a silk robe around herself, and slid out of bed. In a voice both hard and cold, she asked, “Cesare, do you think the Holy Father evil?”
Cesare felt a shiver run throughout his body. “There are times I’m not sure I know what evil is,” he said. “Are you always certain?”
Lucrezia turned and looked at him. “Yes, I am certain, my brother. I know evil. It can’t disguise itself from me . . . ”
The following morning Lucrezia left to return to Rome, but Cesare could not. It was too soon for him to face his father, for he was filled with both anger and guilt. And now that young Perotto was dead, there was no reason to hurry.
Disguised in the plain clothes of a peasant, Cesare rode up to the gates of Florence. It had been so long, it seemed, since he’d been to this city. As he rode alone, his entourage left outside the gates, he remembered his first visit to Florence. He had gone there from school, when he was just a boy with Gio Medici. And then it was so different . . .
There was a time when Florence had been a proud republic, so proud that it had forbidden anyone of noble blood to take part in the government. But the Medici family, with its great banking house and its monies, actually ruled Florence through its influence with the elected officials. It did so by making rich those who formed the ruling committees elected by its citizens. And so Gio’s father, Lorenzo the Magnificent, had cemented the Medici family power.
For young Cesare Borgia, it was a new experience to live in a great city where its ruler was almost universally beloved. Lorenzo was one of the richest men in the world, and one of the most generous. He gave poor girls dowries so they could be wed. He gave painters and sculptors money and facilities in which to work. There the great Michelangelo lived in the Medici palace in his youth, and was treated as a son.
Lorenzo Medici bought books from all over the world, and had them translated and copied at great cost
so that they could be made available to scholars in Italy. He endowed chairs of philosophy and Greek at Italian universities. He wrote poetry that was acclaimed by the severest critics, and compositions for music to be played at the great carnivals. The finest scholars and poets, artists, and musicians were often guests at the Medici table in the palace.
When Cesare was a guest there, though he was only a boy of fifteen, he was treated with exquisite courtesy by Lorenzo and the other men in his company. But Cesare’s fondest memories of Florence were the tales he was told of the Medici family’s rise to power—especially the story Gio told him of his father Lorenzo’s narrow escape from the coils of a great conspiracy when he was a young man.
At the age of twenty, on the death of his own father, Lorenzo had become head of the Medici family. By this time the Medici family was banker to the Pope and various kings, the most powerful financial institution in the world. But Lorenzo saw that unless he wanted to jeopardize that position he would have to consolidate his own personal power.
He did so by financing great festivities as entertainment for the people. He staged mock sea battles on the river Arno, and financed musical dramas in the great Piazza of Santa Croce; he sponsored parades of the cathedral’s holy relics, with a thorn of the crown Jesus had worn, a nail from his cross, and a fragment of the spear that had been thrust into his side by a Roman soldier. All the shops in Florence were decorated with the Medici banner, its three red balls recognizable throughout the city.
Lorenzo was both bawdy and religious. On carnival days, gaily decorated floats carried the prettiest prostitutes of the city through the streets; on Good Friday the Stations of the Cross—portraying the life and death of Christ—were reenacted. Life-size figures of Christ, the Virgin Mary, and various saints were carried to the cathedral, and captive white doves were released and floated through the air like angels. There were beauty pageants for young women of respectable families, and processions of monks to warn people of hell.