Alexander said quietly, “That was my intent. A saint is greater than any Pope. And now we will pray together to ask her to intercede for us in heaven.”
17
CESARE AWOKE THAT morning with mounting excitement. He could already feel the change in himself. Today was the day he was to appear before the consistory of cardinals who had been selected by the Pope to “consider” releasing him from his vows, and allowing him to resign his status as cardinal.
A commission of fifteen was appointed, and all but two were present. A Spanish cardinal had fallen ill with malaria, and one of the Italian cardinals had fallen from his horse.
None of the remaining cardinals had ever before faced such a request, for to be a cardinal was the dream of most men throughout Italy. To be selected was to rise high in the ranks of the church, and to be held in the greatest esteem, for each was in a position to be considered as a future Pope. Most of the cardinals present had committed themselves to long years of exhaustive work, prayer—and occasional sin—to reach their position, and so Cesare’s request was considered both puzzling and an impertinence. To lay down the purple voluntarily was an affront to their honor.
Each member of the commission sat stiffly on a high-backed, ornately carved wooden chair in the Hall of Faith. Dressed in their formal vestments, the long line of red hats appeared as a huge ribbon hung before the portrait of the Last Judgment, the faces of the cardinals masks contorted with disbelief: stark, white, and ghostly.
Cesare rose to address them. “I stand here before you in order that you understand why I am about to ask your indulgence in this matter. I must confess that I have never wished a life in the church. My own father, his Holiness Alexander VI, made this choice for me with every good intention. Still, it has never been my choice and will never be my vocation.”
The cardinals looked at each other nervously, surprised by his candor. Now Cesare explained. “My choice is to lead the papal army, to defend the church and Rome. And to that I must add that I wish to marry and have legitimate children. This being my true vocation and my greatest conviction, my colleagues, I ask humbly that you free me from my vows and permit me to resign.”
One of the Spanish cardinals protested. “If this is allowed, there may be a danger. For what if the cardinal becomes a prince and then feels able to form new alliances, serve a new king, and become an enemy of the present church and Spain?”
Alexander stood impassively before them, unmoved. The cardinals had been made aware of his wishes, but now each looked to him for confirmation in this important decision. He spoke. “It is only for the good of his soul that my son makes this request. For, as he confessed, his true calling is to marry and to be a soldier, not to be a man of the cloth. His temporal appetites and worldliness have caused the papacy universal scandal, for he seems unable to subdue his passions. And we must agree that does not serve the Holy Mother Church or Rome. We must consider also that on the cardinal’s resignation over thirty-five thousand ducats in territories and benefices will fall vacant and be returned to us. In view of the benefits of this action, and because we are committed to saving souls, we must honor this request.”
The vote was unanimous, the amount of the benefices casting away any doubt.
In a short ceremony, Pope Alexander released his son from his vows and authorized him to marry, bestowing upon him a special papal blessing.
And so it was that Cesare Borgia carefully laid down his great purple cloak and red hat in front of the consistory, bowing in acknowledgment to the cardinals of the committee and to the Holy Father. Then, with his head held high, Cesare strode from the room into the golden sunlight of Rome. He was now a man of the world, not of the church, and his new life could begin.
Afterward, Alexander felt a sense of grief, for he had built his life upon the hope that his son Cesare would eventually become Pope. But now that Juan was dead and he needed a commander he could trust to lead the papal army, he resolved to bend to the will of the Heavenly Father and accept the decision of his son.
He felt himself falling into a depression, quite uncommon for a man of his buoyant nature, and so he reasoned that he needed some pleasure to lift his spirits and offset his heavy heart. He determined to have a massage, for the pleasures of the body always helped to cheer him.
Alexander called for Duarte and informed him that he would conduct any emergency afternoon meetings in his private salon. As he did in other situations which brought him pleasure but would be frowned upon by others, he told Duarte to make known to his staff that a long afternoon massage had been prescribed as a health measure by his personal physician.
He had been in the salon for less than an hour when Duarte entered and announced, “There is someone who wishes to see you. He claims it is a matter of great importance.”
The Pope, lying prone, covered only by a light cotton towel, spoke without raising his head. “Ah, Duarte, you must have these young women relax you when they are finished with me. It drives the devil from your body, and brings new light to your soul.”
“There are other ways I find more effective,” Duarte said, laughing.
Alexander asked, “Who wishes this audience?”
“The French ambassador, Georges d’Amboise,” Duarte announced. “Do you wish me to ask him to wait until you are clothed?”
“Tell him if it is important enough, he will have to speak to me as I am, for I have no inclination to end this session more quickly than I had planned,” Alexander said. “After all, Duarte, even a Pope must have a moment to honor the temple of his body. For is it not a creation of the Lord?”
Duarte said, “Theology is not my strength, Worthiness. But I will send him in. For the French are seldom horrified by pleasures of the flesh.”
And so it was, lying unclothed on a high table, with two attractive young girls massaging Alexander’s back and rubbing his muscular legs, that the French ambassador, Georges d’Amboise, found the Pope. He was ushered into the salon by an amused Duarte, who quickly took leave of them.
Though cynical and highly sophisticated, Georges d’Amboise was taken aback at this sight. But his face, set in practiced diplomacy, revealed nothing.
The Pope said, “It’s safe to speak, Ambassador. These girls pay no attention.”
But d’Amboise refused. He told Alexander, “The king’s instructions are that no one but Your Holiness must hear this.”
Pope Alexander impatiently waved the girls away, slid off the table, and stood up. The ambassador attempted to avert his eyes.
“D’Amboise, you French make such a thing of secrecy, yet all rumors fly on the wind, and nothing escapes us. Your court can keep nothing to itself, nor can ours. But now we are alone. You may speak.”
Georges d’Amboise found it difficult to approach a matter of such great importance while the Pope stood naked before him, and in his attempt to compose himself he began to cough and sputter.
Alexander looked down at himself and smiled. “And the French are said to be so free . . . ” he said, with some sarcasm. “I will dress so you may stop stammering and get to the point.”
A short while later, dressed in formal attire, the Pope joined d’Amboise in his study. D’Amboise began. “King Charles is dead. In an unfortunate accident, in which he hit his head on a large ceiling beam, he swiftly fell into unconsciousness, and within hours, despite his physicians and the attentions of the court, he died. Nothing could be done. His relative, Louis the Twelfth, has now ascended to the throne as King. Under his rule, I am sent with information: that the situation with both Naples and Milan is now changed, for this king claims them. They are rightfully his.”
Alexander thought a moment, and frowned. “Am I to understand that your new king claims both kingdoms?”
“Yes, Your Worthiness. One claim is set on the grounds of his forebears, the other on that of King Charles. But be assured, he means no harm to you or the Holy Mother Church.”
The Pope feigned surprise. “Really? And how can we be
certain?”
The ambassador placed his hand over his heart in a gesture of sincerity. “I had hoped that you would accept my word and the word of the king.”
Alexander sat silently, thoughtfully, for a moment. “What is it that your king wishes from me? For to come to me with this information, and offer assurances as well, he must desire something dear . . . ”
“Well,” d’Amboise said, “he has a wish that only Your Holiness can grant. And it has to do with his marriage to Jeanne of France. He has asked me to tell you that he is not content, Holiness.”
“My dear d’Amboise,” Alexander said with a look of amusement. “Not content with his marriage to the deformed, misshapen daughter of Louis the Eleventh? What a surprise! Though he disappoints me, for I expected more of him. He is not as charitable as I presumed.”
The ambassador’s voice became cold and more formal. He was affronted by Alexander’s remarks. “It is not a matter of her beauty, Holy Father, I assure you. Their marriage has never been consummated, and the young king strongly desires an heir.”
“Has he another wife in mind?” Alexander asked, already suspecting the answer.
The ambassador nodded. “He wishes to marry Anne of Brittany, the widow of his late cousin, Charles the Eighth.”
The Pope laughed good-naturedly. “Ah,” he said. “Now it becomes clearer to me. He wishes to marry his sister-in-law, and so he asks for a dispensation from the Holy Father. In exchange, he will offer a treaty protecting our lands.”
Amboise’s body seemed to fold in on itself with relief. “In substance, Holy Father, though I would put it more delicately . . . ”
Pope Alexander’s sonorous voice resounded throughout the hall. “This is a serious matter you come to me with. For it is written in the holy Commandments: ‘Thou shalt not covet thy brother’s wife.’”
The ambassador stammered, “But with your dispensation, Your Holiness, even a commandment can be altered in some measure.”
The Pope sat back in his chair and rested, and his voice became much more conversational. “This is true, Ambassador. Still, before I can agree, there is something more I desire than the safety of our lands, for your king is requesting a great indulgence.” D’Amboise said nothing, and Alexander continued. “You must be aware that my son, Cesare Borgia, has given up the hat of a cardinal. And so it is imperative that he must soon marry. The daughter of King Federigo of Naples, Princess Rosetta, seems a suitable match, and one who would be greatly influenced by your king, do you not agree? I assume we can count on his support?”
“I will do my utmost, Your Holiness, to see that the king understands your wishes, and grants an accommodation. Until we speak again, I beg Your Holiness to consider the king’s request, for he has waited patiently for this.”
The Pope looked at the ambassador slyly. “Go, d’Amboise, bring Louis my message. For perhaps both France and the papacy can celebrate, if indeed there are to be two weddings.”
Cesare had sent several messages to Lucrezia at Santa Maria in Portico, asking that she meet him in private, but in each case she had replied that she had other pressing engagements, though she would come as quickly as possible. At first Cesare felt slighted, but before long he became angry.
His sister was not only his lover, but his dearest friend. Now that there were so many things about his life and his plans that were changing, he wanted to share them with her. Yet for months she did nothing but spend every minute of the day and night with her new husband, Prince Alfonso, throwing parties, entertaining poets and artists, taking outings in the countryside. Her palace had become an artists’ gathering place, attracting visitors far and wide.
Cesare stopped himself from imagining the young couple making love, for he had heard rumors of her wedding night, and in this case—unlike her experience with Giovanni Sforza—he had heard that she was filled with joy and enthusiasm.
Now that Cesare was no longer a cardinal, he had little to do. To pass the time he spent hours studying military strategy, and trying to determine the best marital alliance he could form in order to help his father expand the papal territories. And he wished to speak about the matter with his sister, to gain counsel not only from his father and his advisors but from her as well—for who knew him better?
Unfettered by the robes of a cardinal, he began to spend days and nights drinking in the city with courtesans, managing in several incautious encounters to contract the French pox. And he paid dearly for his indiscretions, for his own physician used him as a guinea pig to construct a cure, forcing him to spend weeks soaking the pustules that covered his body with all manner of herbs and boiling pumice packs. He was cut and scrubbed and soaked until finally the sores disappeared, leaving him with a host of small round scars that were hidden beneath his clothes. And for that his physician was credited with a cure.
Once Cesare was well, he again sent for Lucrezia. And for two days he received no answer. Then, as he was raging in his bedchambers, determined to take himself to her palace and insist on a meeting, he heard a knock at the door to the secret passage. He sat up alert, on the side of the bed.
Suddenly Lucrezia was standing before him, radiant and more beautiful than ever before. She ran to him and he stood to kiss her, to embrace her with all his pent-up passion, but their lips met for only a moment before she pulled away. It was a sweet kiss, an affectionate embrace, but one completely without lust.
“This is what you come to bring me?” Cesare asked her. “Now that you have someone else to enchant?”
He turned before she answered, and stood with his back to her. She begged him to turn and look at her, but he refused, and she found herself pleading with him. “Cesare, my dearest brother, my love, please don’t be angry with me. All things change. And now that you are no longer a cardinal, you will find a love as complete as I have.”
Cesare turned toward her again, his chest heavy, as though he had swallowed a stone. His dark eyes glowed with anger. “This is what you feel after all our years together? In just a few months you have given your heart to another? And what has he given you?”
She tried to approach him again, this time with tears in her eyes. “Chez, he lavishes me with kindness, conversation, and affection. It is a love that fills my heart and my life, but more than that, it is a love I don’t have to hide. It is not forbidden, it is blessed, and that is something you and I could never have.”
Cesare sneered. “All your promises about never loving anyone as you loved me—all that has changed in this short time? Just because you have a blessing, you can give yourself wholly to another? Your lips can be kissed as I kissed them? Your flesh responds with the same fire?”
Lucrezia’s voice trembled. “There will never be anyone like you for me, for you were my first love. It was with you I first shared the secrets of my body, as well as the secrets of my heart and the most intimate thoughts of my mind.” She walked to him then, and he allowed it. She held his face in her hands, and he did not pull away as she looked into his eyes. Her voice was soft but strong when she continued. “But my dear Chez, you are my brother. And our love has always been tainted by sin, for though the Holy Father sanctioned it, the Heavenly Father would not. One does not have to be a cardinal or a Pope to know the truth of sin.”
She covered her face as he shouted, “A sin? Our love, a sin? I will never accept that. It was the only true thing in my life, and I forbid you to make less of it. I lived and breathed for you. I could live with Papa loving Juan more than he loved me; I could live with Papa loving you more than he loved me, for I knew you loved me above all things. But now that your love for another is greater than for me, how do I make that right with myself?” Cesare began to pace.
Lucrezia sat on his bed and shook her head. “I don’t love another more than I love you. I love Alfonso differently. He is my husband. Chez, your life has just begun. Papa will ordain you captain general of the papal army, and you will have great battles to fight, as you have always dreamed. You will marry and ha
ve children you can claim as your own. You will be master of your own house. Cesare, my brother, your whole life is before you, for finally you are free. Don’t allow me to be the cause of your unhappiness, for you are more special to me than the Holy Father himself.”
He bent to kiss her then, a gentle kiss, the kiss of a brother for his sister . . . and some part of him turned hard and cold. What would he do without her? For until that night, whenever he’d thought of love he always thought of her; whenever he’d thought of God he always thought of her. Now he feared that whenever he thought of war, he’d always think of her.
18
CESARE SPENT THE following weeks dressed in solemn black, pacing the halls of the Vatican, sullen and angry, as he waited impatiently for his new life to begin. Each day he anxiously marked time as he looked forward to an invitation from Louis XII, king of France. He was restless and wanted to escape the familiar landscape of Rome, to leave behind all memories of his sister, and his life as cardinal.
During these weeks his night terrors returned, and he was reluctant to fall asleep for fear he would wake in a cold sweat with a half-scream upon his lips. No matter how hard he tried to banish his sister from his heart and mind, he was possessed by her. And each time he closed his eyes to try to rest, he imagined making love to her.
When the Pope, with great pleasure, informed him that Lucrezia was pregnant again, he spent the entire day riding through the countryside almost mad with jealousy and rage.
That night, as he tossed and turned in his sleep, a bright yellow flame burst forth in his dreams. Suddenly the sweet face of his sister appeared, and he saw it as a sign, a symbol of their love. It had warmed him, then burned him, but still it burned bright. He made his commitment during that dark night, that he would wear that flame as his personal insignia and place it alongside the Borgia bull. From that day forward, in peace or in war, the flame of his love would now flame his ambition.