At midnight, still clad in his robe, Cesare walked down to the cellar. He heard her ranting, screaming, and cursing before he ever saw her. He walked into the small damp room, dimly lit with one candle. Caterina lay on her back in an iron bed, each of her wrists and ankles pulled tight to the sides of the bedstead. Tied and chained, the She-Wolf was tossing her head furiously from side to side.
Cesare stood silently before her, and the moment Caterina saw him she stopped shouting. Instead she raised her head as far as she was able, and spit at him with all her might. But he remained just out of reach.
“My dear Countess,” Cesare said charmingly. “You could have saved yourself and your people from coming to harm, had you the capacity for reason.”
She turned her face and stared into his eyes, her own a startling blue. Then her beautiful face became contorted with rage, and with a venomous voice she challenged him. “What kind of torture do you save for a woman, you cowardly piece of Roman shit?”
“I will show you,” he answered, his voice cold.
Cesare shed his robe and climbed upon her, forcing himself into her slowly at first, then thrusting forward and upward as he penetrated her deeply. He waited to hear her screams, her curses, but she was silent. And the only sound in the room was the mumbling of the standing Roman guards.
Cesare continued now as though in a rage, plunging into her with thrust after powerful thrust, until suddenly she began to move along with him. Her full hips lifted, her pelvis pushing toward him, and he began to believe he was bringing her pleasure. Cesare continued to ravish her, for he was certain of his victory over her. And when he finished her cheeks were flushed, and her hair was soaked with sweat.
“You should thank me,” he said as he moved off her.
She looked at him with blue eyes blazing. “Is that all you have to give me?” she asked.
Cesare stormed out of the room. But on the next two nights Cesare visited Caterina at midnight and repeated the same silent act of conquest. The results remained the same. Afterward, her cheeks flushed and her body slick with sweat, she would ask, “Is that all you have for me?”
He determined to continue in the same fashion until she surrendered. But on the third night, some minutes after Cesare entered her and began his thrusts, she commanded, “Untie me, for otherwise there is no contest.”
Caterina lay naked; she could conceal no weapons. And his two guards, large and muscular, stood in the room. So what danger could there be? Cesare himself removed her chains, and then gently untied her bands. She nodded in thanks, and for the first time her eyes softened. Then he mounted her. And she wrapped first her legs and then her arms around him, pulling him deeper inside her. She pulled his head back by his hair and ran her tongue around his lips, then she kissed him, and her tongue penetrated him so deeply that his entire body trembled. Moments later Caterina began to make small sounds of pleasure that drove him nearly mad with ecstasy. In minutes they brought each other to a shuddering climax.
The following day, Caterina refused to eat unless she was permitted a fragrant bath. She was taken to the tubs in chains and washed by one of the ladies-in-waiting who had survived the explosion, but that was the only time Caterina left the bed.
Each night for the next two weeks, Cesare came at midnight and mounted Caterina. Halfway through he would untie her, and she would embrace him again. The guards remained, for Cesare could never be certain that in a moment of passion or rage she wouldn’t try to gouge his eyes out, but both Cesare and Caterina ignored them. Then one night, the two violent lovers began to speak.
“You must admit that even rape can be pleasurable,” Cesare said.
Caterina laughed and said slyly, “You believe you raped me? You are wrong, you Roman bastard, son of a Pope. Standing on the rampart of the castle, that first moment I saw you, I was determined either to kill you or to rape you. If I had captured you, I would have tied you up, just as you did me. And then I would have mounted you. But no matter; the result is the same.”
Caterina had a true gift for strategy. By claiming his will as her own, she had shifted the balance of power. And so, without a weapon, Caterina had effectively disarmed him. For now Cesare felt as much the vanquished as the victor.
The day they were to leave for Rome, Caterina asked Cesare a question. “Will you lead me in heavy chains through the streets of the city like a captured queen, so your citizens can jeer and abuse me as they did in ancient Rome?”
Cesare laughed. Caterina looked quite beautiful on that day, especially for someone who had been kept in a dungeon. “It hadn’t occurred to me,” he said, “but . . . ”
“I know, you will burn me at a stake instead, for my attempt on the Pope’s life,” Caterina said. “Such fools I chose for messengers.”
“The Pope’s life is often threatened,” Cesare said. “He seldom takes umbrage at that, especially if the plot is foiled. But if that is his intention, to hang you or burn you for heresy, I will assure him that you have been punished by me each day since your capture.”
“And he would believe you?” she asked.
“He would consider it rape, and would find that more severe a punishment than death, for he believes that rape causes injury to the soul, and he loves women as I have never,” Cesare admitted.
Caterina smiled wryly. “But one would have to believe in a soul to believe in its injury.”
“Ah, and that the Pope does,” Cesare said, smiling. “In the meantime, as you are a Sforza, after all, I’ve made arrangements for you to be held in Belvedere. Without chains. That castle belongs to me. It has lovely gardens and a wonderful view of the city. You will be treated as an honored guest—well guarded, of course.”
21
CESARE ENTERED ROME a conquering hero. The grand procession celebrating his victory was the most dramatic the citizens of Rome had ever seen. All Cesare’s men-at-arms, his light cavalrymen, and his Swiss pikemen were dressed in stark black; even the wagons of his baggage train were draped with black cloth. And Cesare, wearing jet-black armor, rode at the head of his army accompanied by four cardinals, whose red and purple vestments formed a perfect contrast. To applaud his triumph even the charging bull of the Borgia was emblazoned in red on a banner of black, rather than its customary white. Astride a sleek black stallion, Cesare appeared the regal dark prince.
The procession made its way through the throngs of citizens who lined the streets to the Vatican. There Cesare greeted his father in Spanish as he knelt to kiss the papal ring, and present the Pope with the keys to the cities and castles he had conquered.
Alexander, his face glowing with pride, lifted Cesare to his feet, and embraced his son warmly before the delighted crowd.
Immediately after the procession, Cesare took leave of his father and made his way to his apartments at the Vatican.
Cesare himself had changed dramatically in the time he was away. Once he had grasped that the laughter on the faces of the French was because they thought him a fool, once he had tried to charm Rosetta and failed, and once he discovered that even his happiness with his wife was tainted by his memory of his sister, he vowed to hide his emotions. From that day forward his face rarely broke into a smile, and his eyes gave no hint of his anger.
Alas, his face. Cesare had suffered another severe attack of the French pox of late, and this time the disease dug deep holes in his cheeks and burrowed into his nose and forehead, leaving several round scars that would not fade. On the battlefield, this did not matter, but in the city, at a celebration, or when bedding down with courtesans, it was a curse. At twenty-five years of age, Cesare Borgia was accustomed to being praised and admired for his good looks; now he felt a loss. He covered every mirror in his chambers with black cloth, and warned the servants never to remove it.
The night terrors returned, and so to stave off his fears he slept in the day and worked throughout the night. Again, he spent many hours riding through the countryside enveloped in darkness.
Now he could wait
no longer to see Lucrezia. He had been away so long. Her face had been the vision he’d followed into his victories.
Almost two years had passed since they had been together, and he wondered if she had changed. Would she still have the same effect upon him after all this time, after his marriage to Lottie and hers to Alfonso? In his heart Cesare held the hope that Lucrezia would have grown tired of her husband, for now that the papal alliances had changed, Alfonso was in fact a threat to the Borgia family.
Many thoughts filled his mind as he waited to be admitted to Lucrezia’s chambers. Though he was reckless to the point of danger in his daily life and seemed concerned about nothing, now he worried. What would his sister think? Would she love him less?
The moment Lucrezia saw her brother she rushed to embrace him, throwing her arms around his neck and hiding her face on his chest. “Good God, I have missed you so,” she said, with tears in her eyes.
When she lifted her head to look at him, she felt no shock, just heartbreak at what had befallen him. She held his face in her hands. “My dear Chez, how life has treated you . . . ”
Self-conscious, he looked away. His heart still raced as it had before, and as it had with no one else.
“You look well, Crezia,” he said softly, and he could not keep his eyes from showing how he felt. “Are you still as happy?”
She took his hand and led him to the couch. “Only heaven could bring me greater joy,” she said. “For with my babies, and Alfonso, I feel such happiness as I have never known, and I live in fear that I will soon wake from this beguiling dream.”
He felt himself stiffen. “I have visited with young Giovanni. And I see our son resembles you more than myself,” he said. “His blond curls and light eyes give him away.”
“But not completely,” Lucrezia said, laughing. “He has your lips, he has your smile, and he has your hands, like Papa’s.” She held his hands up to show him. “Adriana brings him from your quarters each day, and since you have been gone I have had the pleasure of seeing him often. He is an intelligent and reasonable child, though he also has your sudden bursts of temper.” She laughed, and he could see the pleasure on her face.
“And your own child?” he asked. “Are you as pleased with him?”
Her face radiant, her blond hair in ringlets on her forehead and cheeks, Lucrezia nodded. “Rodrigo is but an infant; who can tell who he will be. But he is as beautiful as his father, and as sweet.”
Cesare looked at his sister warily. “So, you remain content with your husband?”
Lucrezia knew she must be careful in her answer. If she tried to reassure her brother by hinting that she was unhappy, Alfonso would lose her protection and could wind up losing his freedom. But if she said she loved her husband too much, he might lose even more. “Alfonso is a good and virtuous man,” she said. “And he is kind to me and the children.”
Cesare’s tone was measured. “And if Papa would try to annul this marriage, would you consent?”
Lucrezia frowned. “Cesare, if Papa would consider such a thing, tell him I would rather die. I will not live in this world without Alfonso. . . . as I would not want to live without you.”
When Cesare left her that day, he was filled with confusion. He found it difficult to accept her love for her husband, yet was comforted that she still professed her love for him.
That night, lying in his bed with only the glow of the moon shining through his window to light his room, he recalled the way she looked, her fragrant smell, and the words she had spoken. It was then that he reflected on her almost imperceptible grimace when she first saw his face. And he heard her voice filled with pity when she said, “My dear Chez, how life has treated you . . . ” He knew then that she had seen both the scars on his face, and the deeper scars of his soul.
And so he vowed from that day forward that he would cover his face with a mask, to cover the toll of his life. He swore that he would clothe himself in mystery, and that he would continue to wage war—not for his father’s God, but on his father’s God.
One month after Cesare’s arrival in Rome, in a solemn ceremony, the Pope stood as Vicar of Christ, clothed in his finest vestments at the magnificently adorned altar of Saint Peter’s Basilica.
Cesare Borgia, the French duke of Valentinois, stood before him. The duke’s mantle was removed, and the Pope placed the cloak of the Gonfaloniere and captain general of the papal army on Cesare’s shoulders, while on his head was placed the crimson biretta. Finally, he was handed the commander’s baton.
Cesare knelt before Pope Alexander and with his hand on the Bible swore the oath of obedience, vowing that he would never conspire against the Holy Father to do him or his successors any harm, and that even under torture or fear of death he would not reveal any of the Pope’s secrets.
And so it was that Alexander blessed him with the Golden Rose, and intoned, “Receive this rose as a symbol of joy, dear son, for you have shown the virtues of both nobility and courage. May the Heavenly Father bless you and keep you safe from harm!”
Later, in a private meeting in the Pope’s chambers, with Duarte Brandao as the only witness, Alexander told his son that he was granting him additional territories and income. “We reward you in this way due to our respect for your victories. And so it follows that we must discuss the resumption of the campaign. It is true that now Imola and Forli are ours, but Faenza, Pesaro, Camerino, and even Urbino are left to be conquered. As captain general you must subdue them, for we must establish the status of the papacy, and create an effective government in order to ensure a united Romagna.”
And with that Alexander retired to his quarters, for he had made arrangements with his favorite courtesan.
The jubilee occurred only once every twenty-five years, and so Alexander reasoned that there would be only one grand celebration during his reign as Pope. Because it brought enormous revenue—as pilgrims from all over Europe filled the city of Rome to hear the Easter sermon of the Pope—preparations had to be made to ensure the filling of the coffers of the Holy Catholic Church. The papacy must receive the greatest benefit, for the money would be used to finance the campaign.
Pope Alexander wanted the jubilee to be magnificent, to be so splendid that it would reflect the majesty of God. Therefore, he had much to do. He must build new avenues, broad and clean for carriages to travel upon. The slums must be torn down, and new buildings constructed to harbor the pilgrims in safety and comfort.
Alexander called Cesare into his chambers and asked him to take charge of the project, for it was to his benefit to make this jubilee as financially successful as possible.
Cesare agreed, but then brought his father some unpleasant news. “I have received reliable reports that two men in your service are disloyal to you. The first is the papal master of ceremonies, Johannes Burchard.”
“And what have you heard about Herr Burchard?” Alexander asked.
Cesare cleared his throat before he said, “That he is in the pay of Cardinal della Rovere, and that he keeps a diary filled with lies about our family, some quite scandalous.”
Alexander smiled slyly. “I’ve known about that diary for quite a long time, but Burchard is a valuable man.”
Cesare asked, “Valuable?”
Alexander explained, “His official duties as social secretary are frivolous. His real value to me is that anything I want della Rovere to know, I tell Burchard. It’s a marvelous and efficient system, and so far has served me well.”
“Have you read the diary?” Cesare asked.
Alexander laughed out loud. “I have. In secret, for some time now. Portions of it are quite interesting, for were we as depraved as he has made us out to be, we should be having far more enjoyment. Other portions border on the ridiculous, for they show a true lack of intelligence. Some are laughable.”
Cesare frowned. “I’m certain that della Rovere plans someday to release it as a true record of your papacy. You’re not concerned?”
Alexander’s eyes were wise
and clear. “Cesare, there are so many scandalmongers in place paid by our enemies, one more won’t make a difference.”
“Yet you could stop them,” Cesare said.
The Pope was thoughtful for several minutes before he answered. “Rome is a free city, my son,” he said. “And I value freedom.”
Cesare looked with suspicion at his father. “Slanderers and liars remain free, Father, while those who rule and serve remain unable to defend themselves? For no one believes the truth. If it were me who had to judge the scandalmongers I would punish them severely; they would not get away with such scandalous lies and insults.”
Pope Alexander was amused by his son’s outrage. As though a Pope could keep people from forming an opinion and recording their thoughts! Better to know what they say than to have it hidden. “Freedom is not a right but a privilege, and one I choose at this time to bestow on Burchard. There may come a time when my mind is changed, but for now the idea of freedom appeals to me.”
When Cesare told his father about the next accusation he was disturbed, for he knew what it would mean to his sister. “I have heard from several very trustworthy sources, Father, that someone within our family is plotting with our enemies to destroy us.”
Alexander’s expression didn’t change. “You’re not going to tell me it’s your poor brother, Jofre?”
“No, Father,” Cesare said. “Of course not. But someone close who endangers us. Lucrezia’s beloved, Prince Alfonso.”
An expression of alertness came over the Pope’s face, but for only a fleeting moment before he recovered. “A vicious rumor, Cesare. I’m certain. And we must withhold our judgment, for Crezia loves him very much. Still, I’ll look into it.”
At that moment they were interrupted by loud and festive music coming from the street below. Alexander reached the window first, pulled back the sash, and laughed. “Come here, Cesare, look at this.”