Suddenly Alexander understood Giuliano della Rovere’s hostility toward him, understood his jealousy and hatred. For he had everything that della Rovere had believed was his—the papacy, the lover, the son.
It was no secret among the cardinals that della Rovere had only loved once, that Vanozza was the great love of his life. He felt considerable humiliation when she left him for Rodrigo Borgia. Until then he’d had a spark of joy in his eyes, and a ready laugh. It was only after Vanozza was gone that he became so bitter, angry, and zealous a man. It did not help that he had never had a son; all his children were daughters. How God had tested him.
Alexander felt a wave of relief wash over him, for he understood so much more now that he admitted to himself what he had always suspected—that he had never been certain about Cesare. Had he not loved Vanozza with such passion, and admired her as well, he might have asked the question earlier and spared himself and Cesare great suffering. But to live without her, to risk losing her, was too great a cost, and so he never had.
“I’ll consider what you have suggested about our son,” Alexander told Vanozza. “And I will speak to Cesare about his choice of vocation. If he will ever speak to me.”
Vanozza’s voice was filled with compassion. “Our son Juan is dead, Rigo. Without him life will never be the same. But our Cesare is alive, and you need him to lead your armies. If not him, who will? Jofre? No, Rigo. It must be Cesare, for he is a warrior. But in order to claim his life you must use your love to free him. Let someone else be Pope. We have had happy lives.”
As Alexander stood and bent to kiss Vanozza’s cheek, he caught the scent of her perfume. And when he turned to leave, it was not without regret.
Vanozza stood at the doorway, and smiled as she waved. “Look at his hands, Rigo. Be at peace.”
On the day Cesare returned to Rome from Florence, he immediately came to confer with his father and Duarte Brandao. They retired to an inner chamber hung with tapestries and decorated with the intricately carved chests that held the raiments of his office. There were no formalities here. Alexander embraced his son, but there was a warmth in that embrace which made Cesare wary.
Duarte spoke first. “Have you found the prophet as dangerous to us as has been rumored?” he asked.
Cesare sat on a cushioned chair opposite Duarte and his father. “He is an impassioned speaker, and the citizens gather in great crowds, as though at a carnival, to hear him preach.”
Alexander looked interested. “And he speaks about?”
“Reform,” Cesare said. “And the indulgences of the Borgia family. He accuses us of all manner of evil deeds, and frightens the people into believing that to follow the Holy Church in Rome and to honor the papacy will doom them to eternal damnation.”
Alexander stood and began to pace. “It is unfortunate that a mind so bright as his has been invaded by such demons. I’ve often enjoyed his writings. And I’ve heard it said he admires the world of nature—that often on clear nights he will awaken everyone in the monastery to call them into the courtyard to gaze at the stars.”
Cesare interrupted Alexander. “Father, he is a danger to us now. He insists on stringent reform. He is aligned with the French. And he insists that the papacy be returned to someone of true virtue. No doubt that someone would be Giuliano della Rovere.”
Alexander bristled. He turned to Duarte and said, “I hesitate to force a man to confess to his sins when he has served the church well, but I fear this must be done. Duarte, see if there is a way to solve this quickly, for it is necessary that some order be brought to Florence before more damage is done.”
Duarte bowed and took his leave.
Alexander finally reclined on a divan and motioned Cesare to an upholstered velvet stool. His face was impassive, but his eyes had that look of shrewdness which he never showed in public. He said, almost formally, “Now is the time when you must tell me what is in your heart. Do you love the Holy Church as I do? Will you continue to devote your life to it as I have?”
This was going in the direction that Cesare had hoped. He had shown clearly and deliberately to his father that he was a soldier, not a priest. He considered his answer carefully. The Pope must trust him absolutely. Cesare knew that his father did not love him as much as he had loved Juan, but he was certain of his father’s love in some measure. He knew also that he must be wary of his father’s cunning, a weapon used on even the most loved or worshipped. And so Cesare felt compelled to guard his most terrible secrets.
“Father,” he said finally, “I must confess that I have too many unholy appetites to serve the church as you wish. And I do not wish to damn my soul to hell.”
Alexander raised himself up on the divan so that he could look directly into Cesare’s eyes. “I was much like you when I was young,” he said. “Nobody dreamed I would become a Pope. But I labored for forty years and I became a better man, and a better priest. The same could happen to you.”
“I do not desire it,” Cesare said quietly.
“Why not?” Alexander asked. “You love power; you love money. In this world, men must work to survive. And with your gifts you can raise the church to its proper eminence.” He paused for a moment. “Is there some great crime on your conscience that makes you believe that you cannot serve the church?”
In that moment, Cesare divined everything. His father wanted him to confess to the truth about his carnal relationship with Lucrezia. But if he confessed, he knew his father would never forgive him. Though he found it difficult to conceal the truth, Cesare realized that his father wanted to be lied to, but in a convincing fashion.
“Yes,” Cesare said. “There is a great crime. But if I confess it you will condemn me in your heart.”
Alexander leaned forward. His eyes were hard, piercing, with nothing in them of forgiveness. At that moment, though Cesare was sure his father guessed that he had remained Lucrezia’s lover for all these years, he could not help but feel a surge of triumph at outwitting him.
“There is nothing that God will not forgive,”Alexander said.
Cesare spoke softly, for he knew the impact his words would have. “I do not believe in a God. I do not believe in Christ, the Virgin Mary, or any of the saints.”
Alexander seemed amazed for a moment, then recovered. “Many sinners say that because they fear punishment after death,” he said. “So they try to renounce truth. Is there anything else?”
Cesare couldn’t restrain his smile. “Yes. Fornication. Love of power. Murder, but only of dangerous enemies. Telling lies. But you already know them all. There is nothing else for me to confess.”
Alexander took Cesare’s hands in his. And studied them carefully. “Listen, my son,” he said. “Men lose their faith; when the cruelties of this world become too much for them, they question an everlasting and loving God. They question his infinite mercy. They question the Holy Church. But faith must be revived with action. Even the saints themselves were persons of action. I think nothing of those holy men who scourge themselves and ponder the mysterious ways of mankind for scores of years while they live in their monasteries. They do nothing for the living church; they will not help it to endure in this temporal world. It is men like you, and myself, who must do our own particular duty. Even though,” and here Alexander raised a commanding papal finger, “our souls may rest for a time in purgatory. Think how many souls of Christians yet unborn we will save in the next hundreds of years. Those who will find salvation in a strong Holy Catholic Church. When I say my prayers, when I confess my sins, that is my consolation for some of the things I have done. It does not matter that our humanists—those believers in the Greek philosophers—believe that mankind is all that exists. There is an Almighty God, and he is merciful and he is understanding. That is our faith. And you must believe. Live with your sins, confess them or not, but never lose faith—for there is nothing else.”
This speech moved Cesare not at all. Faith would not solve his problems. He had to wrest power on this earth, or h
is head would decorate the walls of Rome. He wanted a wife and children, so it followed that he must live a life of power and richness and not become one of the powerless herd. And to do that, he must commit acts for which his father’s God would make him suffer. Why should he believe in such a God? And he was so alive himself, a man of twenty-three: the taste of wine, food, and women so strongly in his blood that he could not believe in the possibility of his own death, though it had been proven over and over in the death of others.
But Cesare bowed his head. “I believe in Rome, Father,” he said. “I will give my life for it, if you give me the means to fight for it.”
Alexander sighed again. Finally he could fight against this son no longer, for he recognized that Cesare could be his most powerful instrument.
“Then we must make our plans,” he said. “I will appoint you captain general of the papal army, and you will regain the Papal States and become the duke of Romagna. Someday we will unite all the great cities of Italy, impossible as it may seem: Venice, its people living in the water like serpents; those sly sodomites of Florence; haughty Bologna so ungrateful to Mother Church. But we must begin at the beginning. You must be master of the Romagna, and for that you must first marry. We will meet with the consistory of cardinals in a few days, and you will give them back the red hat. Then I will make you captain general. What you lose in your churchly benefices, you will make up for in war.”
Cesare bowed his head. In thanks he attempted to kiss the foot of the Pope, his father, but slowly enough that Alexander moved his body impatiently and said, “Love the church more, Cesare, and your father less. Show your obedience to me with deeds, and not these formal gestures. You are my son and I forgive you all your sins—as any natural father would.”
For the first time in longer than he could remember, Cesare was filled with certainty that he was master of his own fate.
On the night the final contract for the marriage of the Pope’s daughter and Prince Alfonso was signed, Alexander spoke with Duarte. “I wish to hear Lucrezia laugh again,” he said. “She has been solemn for far too long.”
It had not escaped his notice how difficult this past year had been for his daughter, and he hoped to make amends in order to secure her continued loyalty. Knowing it was claimed that Alfonso of Aragon was the “handsomest man in the Imperial City,” the Pope wished to surprise his daughter, and so he insisted Alfonso’s arrival in Rome must remain secret.
Young Alfonso entered the city of Rome early one morning, accompanied by just seven of his envoy. The rest of the fifty who had traveled with him from Naples had been left outside the gates in Marino. He was met by the emissaries of the Pope, who immediately brought him to the Vatican, and once Alexander was reassured by his good looks and forthright manner he was then led on horseback to the Palace of Santa Maria in Portico.
Lucrezia was standing on her balcony humming softly to herself as she watched some children playing tag in the streets below. It was a beautiful summer’s day and she was thinking of the man she was to marry, for her father had informed her he was due to arrive before the week’s end. She found herself looking forward to meeting him, for there had been no one before of whom her brother Cesare spoke with such extravagance.
Suddenly Alfonso rode up and was before her. Lucrezia’s eyes fell on the young prince, and her heart began to race as it had only once before. Her knees weakened and she had to be kept from swooning by Julia and one of her ladies-in-waiting, who had come to warn her of Alfonso’s arrival. But they had come too late.
“Glory to God,” Julia said, smiling. “Is he the most handsome creature you have ever seen?”
Lucrezia was silent. Just then Alfonso looked up and saw her there, and he too seemed struck dumb and placed in a trance as though by a wizard.
For the next six days until the marriage ceremony could take place, Lucrezia and Alfonso attended parties and spent long hours walking in the countryside. They explored the finest shops and streets in Rome, stayed up late and rose early.
Like a child, Lucrezia once again ran to her father’s quarters and embraced him joyfully. “Papa, how can I thank you? How can you know how happy you’ve made me?”
Alexander’s heart felt full again. He told his daughter, “I want for you everything you want for yourself . . . and even greater treasures than you can imagine.”
The marriage ceremony was much like Lucrezia’s first, complete with pomp and ceremony. But this time she took her vows willingly, and hardly noticed the unsheathed sword held above her head by the Spanish captain, Cervillon.
That night, after the celebration, Lucrezia and Alfonso happily fulfilled their marriage contract in front of the Pope, another cardinal, and Ascanio Sforza, and as soon as was allowed by protocol, the young couple quickly retired to Santa Maria in Portico to spend the next three days and nights together. They needed nothing but each other. And for the first time in her life, Lucrezia felt the freedom of a love that was allowed.
After the wedding celebration, a solitary Cesare walked the floors of his quarters at the Vatican. His head was spinning with thoughts and plans for himself as captain general, but his heart had turned to stone.
He had conducted himself with great restraint during his sister’s wedding, even contributing to the good-humored ceremony by appearing in the costume of a magic unicorn—representing the mythic symbols of chastity and purity—in the stage play Alexander requested after watching Lucrezia and Sancia dance before him. The Pope loved to watch young women in their colorful outfits, as they swirled in the fast-paced Spanish dances he remembered from his childhood, while he listened to the sound of their quick-tapping feet on the marble floor.
Cesare had drunk too much, but the wine made the night bearable. Now, as it wore off, he found himself lonely and agitated.
Lucrezia was more beautiful than usual that day. Her dark red wedding gown, studded with jewels, embroidered with black velvet, and girdled with pearls, made her look like an empress. She looked regal now, no longer a child. Since her last wedding, she had become mistress of her own house, had a child, and was now at ease in society. Until that day, Cesare had hardly noticed the change in his sister. Dressed as a cardinal, he had blessed her and wished her well, but in his heart he was aware of a growing anger.
Several times after the ceremony she had caught Cesare’s eye and smiled to reassure him. But later, as the night wore on, she became less and less accessible. Each time he approached to speak to her, she was engaged in conversation with Alfonso. Animated and smiling, twice she had failed even to notice him. And as she left the hall that night to fulfill her marriage contract, she had not even thought to say good night to him.
Cesare told himself that in time he would forget how he felt on this night. That once he had put down the purple and had a life of his own, once he had married and had children, once he became captain general and fought great battles as he had always dreamed, then he would stop dreaming of her.
His mind tried to trick him then. He convinced himself that Lucrezia’s marriage to Alfonso was just a ploy set up by his father to align Rome with Naples, so that Cesare could marry a Neapolitan princess. He knew Rosetta, daughter of the king, would serve. He had heard she was quite pretty and smiled easily. And once he was entrenched and given property and titles in Naples, he could begin to wage war on the vicars and barons and conquer the rest of the Romagna for the Pope and the Borgia family.
He tried to fall asleep that night with visions of glory in his head, but he woke again and again longing for his sister.
16
FRANCIS SALUTI, INTERROGATOR for the Florentine Council of Ten, knew that this would be the most important task of his official life, the questioning by torture of Girolamo Savonarola.
That Savonarola was a priest, and an important one, did not lessen his sense of purpose. True, he had often listened to the man’s sermons and had been moved by them. But Savonarola had attacked the Pope himself and challenged the ruling class of Florenc
e. He had conspired with the enemies of the republic. And so he must stand trial. The truth of his treason must be ripped from his body.
In the special chamber, guarded by soldiers, Saluti directed his staff. The rack was ready; the artisan had checked its mechanisms, the various wheels, straps, pulleys, and weights. They were in order. A small stove, its belly red and its opening speared by various pincers, heated the room so thoroughly it made Saluti sweat. Or perhaps it was because he knew that this was a day on which he would earn a generous pay.
Saluti had the pride of a professional, but he did not enjoy his work. He did not enjoy the fact that his occupation was an official secret, kept for his own protection. Florence was a city filled with vengeful people. He always went armed to his house, which was surrounded by the houses of the members of his extended family, who would rally to his defense if he was attacked.
His job was much sought after. It paid sixty florins a year, twice that of a cashier at the Florentine banks, plus a bonus of twenty florins for every job to which he was assigned by the council.
Saluti was dressed in tight-fitting silk hose and a blouse the color of burnet, a blue, almost black, fabric color made only in Florence. That color dignified his office, but it was not so severe that it offended his own personal taste. For Saluti, despite frequent stomach upsets and insomnia, was a cheerful, thoughtful man. He attended lectures on Plato at the university. He never missed a sermon of Savonarola’s, and he regularly visited the studios of the great artists to take in the newest paintings and sculptures. He had even been invited once to tour the magical gardens of Lorenzo Medici, when Il Magnifico was still alive. It had been the greatest day of his life.
He never enjoyed the suffering of his victims. He resented such accusations. Still, he never was tormented by pangs of conscience. After all, the infallible Pope Innocent had published a bull ruling torture justified in the search for heresy. True, the screams of his subjects were heartrending. True, the nights of Francis Saluti were long, but he always drank a full bottle of wine before retiring, and that helped him sleep.