Lorenzo was perhaps the ugliest man in Florence, but because of his wit and charm had many love affairs. His younger brother and best companion, Giuliano, on the other hand, was acclaimed the city’s most handsome man in a festival held in his honor, on his twenty-second birthday in 1475. Little surprise that he won: his costume for the event was designed by Botticelli and his helmet by Verrocio, at the cost of twenty thousand florins. It delighted the people of Florence to see the ugly but generous Lorenzo embrace his brother without a trace of envy.
But at the height of Lorenzo’s power in Florence, at the height of his happiness, the Medici family became the target of a powerful conspiracy.
The trouble began when Lorenzo refused to grant a huge loan demanded by a previous Pope, the monies to be used to purchase the strategic town of Imola in the Romagna. Pope Sixtus was enraged by this refusal. This Pope, too, was devoted to his family; he had already given seven of his nephews each a cardinal’s hat, and he had wanted the town of Imola for his natural son, Girolamo. When Lorenzo refused the loan, the Pope in retaliation turned instead to the Pazzi family, the great rivals of the Medici.
The Pazzi family and its bank gave the fifty thousand ducats to the Pope with utmost speed, and then applied for other accounts with the papacy, especially the account of the alum mines of Silverlake just outside of Rome. But this the Pope was not willing to do, perhaps because Lorenzo had sent him rich gifts to placate him. And yet the friction between Lorenzo and the Pope still festered.
When the Pope nominated Francisco Salviata as archbishop of Pisa, a Florentine possession—violating an agreement that all such posts would be subject to approval by officials of Florence—Lorenzo barred the archbishop from taking up his post.
The Pazzi family had much older roots in Florence, a longer lineage of fame, than the Medici. And its leader, Jacopo, a much older and more sober man, hated the young Lorenzo.
The Archbishop Salviata and Francisco Pazzi also burned with ambition and hatred. These two men engineered a meeting with Pope Sixtus and convinced him they could overthrow the Medici. He gave his approval. This convinced the old man, Jacopo Pazzi, a ruthless and mean-spirited man, to join the conspiracy.
The plan was to kill Lorenzo and his brother, Giuliano, as they attended Sunday Mass; then, Pazzi supporters and troops hidden outside the wall would swarm in and take over the city.
To get everyone into the church at the same time, it was arranged that the unsuspecting Cardinal Raphael Riario, the seventeen-year-old grandnephew of the Pope, would pay a visit to Lorenzo. As expected, Lorenzo planned a great banquet in the cardinal’s honor, and accompanied him to Mass in the morning. Behind them were two priests named Maffei and Stefano, who under their vestments had each concealed daggers.
Upon hearing the sound of the sacristy bell ringing for the elevation of the Host—when all the faithful in the church would lower their eyes—the priests were to pull their daggers and commence their unholy act. But Lorenzo’s brother, Giuliano, was not there, and the conspirators had been instructed to kill both. Francisco Pazzi rushed to Giuliano’s home to hurry him to church; on the return trip he poked at Giuliano’s torso as if in fun, in order to confirm that he wore no armor beneath his clothing.
In the church, Lorenzo stood at the far side of the altar. He saw his brother Giuliano enter the church with Francisco Pazzi behind him, and then he heard the sacristy bell ring. To his horror he saw Francisco draw a dagger and plunge it into Giuliano’s body. At that very moment, he felt a hand grab his shoulder. He recoiled as he felt cold steel touch his throat, drawing blood. But instinctively his body flinched away, and now he threw off his cloak and used it to repel the thrust of the other priest’s dagger.
Lorenzo drew his own sword then and fought both of them off, jumping over the altar rail and running to the side door. Three of his friends had gathered around him. He led them into the sacristy and pulled the heavy doors closed behind them. For that moment, he was safe.
Meanwhile, outside, the Archbishop Salviata and the assassin, Francisco Pazzi, ran out of the cathedral to shout that the Medici were dead and Florence was free. But the populace of the city ran to take up arms. The archbishop’s troops in the square were overwhelmed and slaughtered.
Lorenzo emerged from the sacristy to the cheers of his friends and supporters. He first made sure that no harm had come to the young Cardinal Riario, but he did nothing to stop the execution of the archbishop and Francisco, who were hanged from the windows of the cathedral.
The two priests, Maffei and Stefano, were castrated and beheaded. Jacopo Pazzi was hunted down, stripped naked, and hanged beside the archbishop. The Pazzi family palace was looted, and all members of the Pazzi clan were banished from Florence forever.
Now, as Cesare returned to the city so many years later, in place of that city of justice and luxury he found a completely different Florence.
The streets themselves were in complete disorder, with filth and sewage flowing freely. Dead and rotting animals lay in the alleys; the smell itself was worse than Rome’s. It was true that the plague had been found in Florence—but only a few cases; still, the very spirit of the people seemed to have been overcome by disease. As Cesare rode the streets, he heard fierce arguments and watched vicious stick fights while angry shouts rather than church bells filled his ears.
When he stopped at the most respectable inn to find a room in which to rest until nightfall, he was reassured that the innkeeper didn’t recognize him—even tried to turn him away, until Cesare forced a gold ducat into his grasping hand.
Once he had done so, the innkeeper was polite and indulgent. He led Cesare to a room where, though the furniture was sparse, it was clean and of good quality. From the window Cesare could see the square in front of the Church of San Marcos, and the monastery of the prophet Savonarola. He determined to wait until evening before he walked out into the streets to see what he could discover.
Moments later, the innkeeper returned with a large carafe of wine and a huge platter of fresh fruit and cheese. And so Cesare rested on the bed, and dreamed . . .
It was a disturbing dream, a nightmare in which crosses and chalices, holy vestments and religious objects swirled around him, just outside his reach. A thunderous voice overhead instructed him to take hold of a golden chalice, but when he grasped for it he found a pistol in his hand. Though he tried to control it, it seemed to fire on its own. Then, as in all dreams, the scenery changed, and he was at a celebration, seated across from his father, his sister, and her newly betrothed, Prince Alfonso. The smile on his face turned to a grimace, and the golden pistol went off and shattered the face of either his sister or Alfonso—he could no longer see well enough to tell.
Cesare awoke, drenched in sweat, to hear the voices and shouts of the citizens in the square beneath his window. He got out of bed, still shaken, and looked outside. There, on a makeshift wooden pulpit, stood the preacher, Savonarola. He began with a fervent prayer to the Lord, his voice trembling with passion, and followed with a hymn of holy praise. In the square, the voices of the citizens were raised in adoration. But within a short time, the preacher began his fiery invective against Rome.
“Pope Alexander is a false Pope,” the friar shouted, and his voice was rich and filled with passion. “The minds of the humanists can twist the truth and make sense out of nonsense. But as there is black and white, there is good and evil, and it stands to reason: that which is not good is evil!”
Cesare studied the man. Thin, ascetic, and clothed in the brown hooded robes of the Dominican Order; his features coarse, yet not unpleasant. His tonsured head moved with conviction, and his hands spoke parables as he waved them to punctuate his words. “This Pope has courtesans,” he shouted. “He kills and poisons. The clergy in Rome keeps boys, and steals from the poor to feather the beds of the rich. They eat from golden plates, and ride on the backs of those who live in poverty.”
The citizens continued to gather, and Cesare found himself strangely fas
cinated by this man, entranced, as though he didn’t know the people the friar was railing about.
As a large crowd began to form, there were angry shouts, but the moment the friar began to speak again there was such silence that a star could be heard as it fell from the sky. “The God of heaven will cast your souls to hell for eternity, and those who follow these pagan priests will be damned. Give up your worldly goods and follow the path of Saint Dominic.”
Someone shouted from the crowd. “But in the monastery you have food donated by the wealthy! Your plates are not of wood, and your chairs have plush cushions. You dance to the tune of the fiddler who pays!”
Savonarola shuddered, and made a vow. “All money from the rich will be refused from this day forward. The friars in San Marco will only eat what the good citizens of Florence provide. One meal a day is enough. Any more shall be given to the poor who gather in the square each evening. No one will go hungry. But that will care only for your body! To preserve your souls you must renounce the Pope in Rome. He is a fornicator; his daughter is a prostitute who sleeps with both her father and brother—and poets as well.”
Cesare had witnessed enough. Once the Pope heard of this, he would not only excommunicate Savonarola—he would accuse him of heresy.
Cesare found his own reaction to the man confounding. He believed the man had vision, but also that he was crazy. For who would martyr himself in this way, knowing the outcome? Still, he allowed, who can know what images and icons spill within the brains of others? Despite all his logic, he knew the man was dangerous, and something must be done about him. For the new Signoria in Florence could be influenced, and if they forbade Florence from joining the Holy League, his father’s plans to unite the Romagna would be thwarted.
This could not be allowed.
Cesare dressed quickly. Outside, as he was moving among the crowd in the street toward the square, a thin, pale young man in a black cape, a head shorter than he was, came up beside him. “Cardinal?” the young man whispered.
Cesare turned, his hand already poised on the sword hidden beneath his robe.
But the young man bowed his head in acknowledgment. “My name is Niccolò Machiavelli. And we should speak. There is danger in the streets of Florence for you at this time. Come with me?” Cesare’s eyes softened, and so Machiavelli took him by the arm, and led him to his apartment away from the square.
Inside, the well-furnished rooms were cluttered with books; the desks overflowed, and papers were scattered on the chairs and floor. There was a small fire burning in the stone fireplace.
Machiavelli cleared off one of the chairs and offered it to Cesare. When Cesare looked around the room, he found himself strangely comfortable. Machiavelli poured a glass of wine for each of them, and took a chair opposite Cesare.
“You are in danger, Cardinal,” Machiavelli warned. “For Savonarola believes he is entrusted with a mission, a holy one. In order to fulfill his part in it the Borgia Pope must be dethroned, the Borgia family destroyed.”
“I am aware of his religious objections to our pagan ways,” Cesare said, sardonically.
“Savonarola has visions,” Machiavelli warned. “First there was a sun falling from the sky, and Lorenzo the Magnificent was dead. Then there was the swift sword of the Lord, from the north, striking the tyrant, and the French invasion followed. He holds power over our citizens; they fear for themselves and their families, and believe this prophet has the gift of sight. He tells that the only mercy will come with angels in white robes, after the destruction of the wicked iniquities, when the souls of the good hold to the rule of God and repent.”
Cesare recognized in Savonarola this spark of truth. But no man could endure the visions this friar claimed and still live in the world. Once he chose to speak, if he had vision, he must be able to predict his fate. To Cesare these visions could never be his truth, for they would deny free will. If destiny always held the winning hand, then what part did man play? It was a fixed game, one in which he would take no part.
Cesare turned his attention back to Machiavelli. “The Pope has already excommunicated the friar. If he continues to inflame the populace he will be put to death, for there will be nothing else the Holy Father can do to silence him.”
Late that night, back in his room at the inn, Cesare could still hear the voice of Savonarola sounding through his window. The friar’s voice remained strong. “Alexander Borgia is a pagan Pope who looks to the pagan gods of Egypt for inspiration! He fills himself with pagan pleasures, while we of true faith bear the suffering. Each year, to enrich their own chest of riches, the cardinals in Rome impose heavier burdens on our citizens. We are not asses, to be used as beasts of burden!”
As Cesare began to drift into sleep, he heard the friar’s passionate voice, and its words of doom: “In the early church the chalices were made of wood, but the virtue of the clergy was of gold. At this dark time, with the Pope and the cardinals in Rome, the chalices are of gold, and virtue of our clergy is of wood!”
15
THE MOMENT ALEXANDER entered the comfortable country home of Vanozza Catanei, he was reminded of all the years they’d spent together, all the times they’d shared. The many evenings they’d spent supping in the candlelit dining room, the warm summer nights he had spent with her in the luxurious bedroom upstairs, his senses alive with the scent of jasmine wafting through the open window filling the darkened room. The sense of peace and love he felt, the comfort and warmth of her flesh against his own. It was on those nights of complete ecstasy, he reflected, that his belief in God was at its height, and that he had made his greatest and most sincere vows of service to the Holy Mother Church.
Vanozza greeted him with her usual warmth. And the Pope, smiling, remembering, stepped back to look at her with fondness and admiration. “You are one of God’s miracles,” he said. “You become more and more beautiful each year.”
Vanozza embraced him and laughed. “Not quite young enough for you, Rodrigo, eh?”
Alexander’s voice was soft and reassuring. “I am Pope now, Vee. It is different from when we were younger.”
“And is it ‘different’ with La Bella?” she teased. Alexander’s face reddened, but Vanozza gave him a broad smile. “Don’t be so serious, Rigo, I’m joking. You know I have no resentment toward Julia, or any of the others. We were good together as lovers, yet we are even better as friends, for true friends are rarer than lovers any time.”
Vanozza led him into the library and poured them each a goblet of wine.
It was Alexander who spoke first. “So Vee, why is it that you sent for me? Are the vineyards or the inns not doing well?”
Vanozza sat across from the Pope, and spoke pleasantly. “On the contrary, both are doing extremely well. And both are making money. There is hardly a day that passes when I don’t feel grateful for your generosity. Still, I would have loved you had you bought me nothing. And would have showered you with gifts had I been able to.”
Alexander said with affection, “I know that, Vee. But if it is not that, then what concerns you and how can I help?”
Vanozza’s eyes were dark and serious now. “It’s our son, Rigo. It’s Cesare. You must see him for who he is.”
Alexander frowned as he explained. “I see him quite clearly. He is the most intelligent of all our children. And one day he will be Pope. At my death he’ll be elected—for if he isn’t, his life, and perhaps even yours, will be in danger.”
Vanozza listened as Alexander spoke, but once he had finished, she insisted, “Cesare doesn’t want to be Pope, Rigo. He doesn’t even want to be a cardinal. You must know that. He is a soldier, a lover, a man who wishes a full life. All the wealth and mistresses you give him don’t fill his heart; all the benefices and properties still leave him empty. He wants to fight bulls, Rigo, not issue them.”
Alexander was silent, thoughtful. Then he said, “He told you this?”
Vanozza smiled and moved to sit closer to him. “I am his mother,” she said. “He
doesn’t have to say it to me. I know it, as you should.”
Suddenly Alexander’s expression hardened. “If I were as much his father as you are his mother, it is possible it would be as clear to me . . . ”
Vanozza Catanei lowered her head for a moment, as though in prayer. When she lifted it again, her eyes were clear and her voice strong. “Rigo, I will say this only once, for I feel no need to defend myself. Yet, I feel you have a right to know. Yes, it is true that Giuliano della Rovere and I were lovers before you and I met. In fact, until my heart jumped at the first sight of you. And I will not patronize you by pretending I was a virgin then, for you know this not to be true. But, on my honor, and under the clear gaze of the Madonna, I swear to you that Cesare is your son, and no other man’s.”
Alexander shook his head, and his eyes softened. “I could never before be sure, Vee—you knew that. I could never feel certain. And so I could not trust what I felt for the boy, or what he felt for me.”
Vanozza reached for Alexander’s hand. “We could never speak of this before. For in order to protect both you and our son, I had to allow Giuliano to believe that Cesare was his son. But I swear to the Christ that was a lie. I did it to keep Giuliano at bay, for his heart is neither as good nor as forgiving as your own. The only protection from his treachery was for him to believe that your son was his.”
Alexander struggled with himself for a moment. “And how can either of us believe what is true? How can either of us know for certain?”
Vanozza took the Pope’s hand in her own and held it up before his eyes. She turned it slowly before him. “I want you to study this hand, Rigo. I want you to examine it carefully, in its every angle and form. And then I want you to study the hand of your son. For from the moment he was born, I lived with the fear that someone else would see what was so apparent to me, and then all would be lost.”