Cesare stood alongside his father and looked out. There, he saw a parade of masked men marching, all dressed in black. There were over fifty of them, and on each mask in place of a nose there grew an enormous raised penis.
“What is this?” Cesare asked, puzzled.
Alexander, quite amused, said, “I expect it’s in your honor, my son. I trust you didn’t pose for the masks?”
During the months ahead, while he waited to begin the next leg of his campaign, Cesare wrote letters to his wife, Lottie, in France, telling her how much he missed her, and how they would soon be together. But he felt it was not safe for her to come to Rome. He seemed propelled by an unnatural ambition, and tormented by what he feared. Though he was immensely strong, he was thin and muscular; driven by his competitive nature, he toured the villages surrounding Rome in disguise, and challenged the local champions to boxing or wrestling matches which he always won.
Cesare, like many of the royals of the time, believed in astrology, and now he visited the most prominent astrologer of the courts, who by studying the stars and planets concluded that his fate was a troubling one. Yet he did not worry, for Cesare was certain that he could trick even the stars if he were clever enough.
Afterward, at lunch with his sister, he reached across the table to take her hand and revealed what he had learned, with a smile. “I now know that at the age of twenty-six I am in danger of ending my life, in arms and by arms. Therefore you should take advantage of the opportunity to love me while I still live.”
Lucrezia chided him. “Don’t speak so, Chez. For without you I am helpless. And so are the children. You must be careful, for Father counts on you as much as we do.”
But within a week, to test his fate, he ordered a bullfight in which six bulls were to be set free in a specially built enclosure at the Piazza San Pietro.
Cesare rode into the arena mounted on his favorite white stallion and took each bull in turn, driving his light lance, his only weapon, so deeply into them that soon five were killed. The sixth was a large ebony bull, muscular and faster than the others, for it was in its prime. Cesare exchanged his light lance for a double-headed sword, and again rode into the arena. Then, mustering all his strength, with one fierce blow he sliced the head from the body of the bull.
Each day he seemed to have more need to challenge his own skills and courage by performing almost impossible feats of daring. His masked face, his lack of fear, and his mysterious ways began to frighten everyone in Rome.
When Duarte Brandao approached the Pope with his concern, Alexander replied, “It is true he is terrible in revenge, and does not tolerate insults. But other than that, my son Cesare is a good-natured young man.”
22
PRINCE ALFONSO OF Aragon, the proud son of kings, carried himself regally—even when he had drunk too much wine, as he had on this moonlit evening. The moment he finished dinner at the Vatican with the Pope, Lucrezia, and her brothers, he made excuses to leave. He told them he wanted to return home, for he had something he must attend to. He kissed his wife good-bye with the promise that he would anxiously await the pleasure of her company whenever she chose to return.
The truth was that he found it quite uncomfortable sitting in the company of the Pope and his sons, for he had been meeting in secret with Cardinal della Rovere. On two occasions, della Rovere, driven once again by ambition, had asked for Alfonso’s support, and discussed the danger to the young man in the current situation. Della Rovere encouraged the young prince to look toward the future, after the Borgia’s fall from power, when he—the cardinal—would become the next Pope. Naples would then have nothing to fear, for the crown would be taken back from the French king and returned to its rightful owners. And someday it would be his.
Now Alfonso was terrified that Alexander would discover the truth about these secret meetings. Since he had returned from the Colonna castle to Rome, he often caught the brothers watching him closely, and he knew they suspected him of treachery.
As Alfonso walked across the empty square in front of Saint Peter’s, the sound of his own footsteps seemed suddenly to echo loudly on the pavement. As the moon hid behind some passing clouds, the square suddenly turned black as pitch. Alfonso heard some shuffling, and looked quickly to see if anyone was following him. But he saw nothing. Breathing deeply, he tried to quiet his racing heart. But something was wrong. He felt it.
Suddenly, as the clouds uncovered the moon, he saw several masked men rushing toward him from the shadows of the buildings. They were wielding scroti, primitive street weapons made of a leather pouch filled with chunks of iron and fastened to a leather handle. He tried to turn back and run across the square, but three of them grabbed him and threw him to the ground. All three of the men jumped him and with their scroti came down hard upon his body. He tried to cover his head with his arms, he tried to turn on his stomach to protect himself, but over and over again his weapon came crashing down unmercifully on his arms and legs, as he tried to stifle his cries of pain. Then one of the men brought his weapon down hard right on the bridge of his nose. He heard the crack of his bones as he felt himself losing consciousness.
Just as the last assailant drew his stiletto and sliced Alfonso from his neck to his navel, there came the shout of a papal guard. The attackers, startled, ran toward one of the streets that led from the square.
The guard standing over the young man judged the severity of his wounds, and knew he must make a choice. He could immediately provide the necessary care to this unfortunate soul, or chase the scum who attacked him. Then, by the pale light of the moon, he recognized Alfonso as the Pope’s son-in-law.
Frantically, he called for help. Then he quickly removed his own cape and tried to staunch the bleeding that flowed from the boy’s massive chest wound.
Shouting again and again for help, the desperate man carried Alfonso to the nearby headquarters of the papal guard and placed him gently on the iron cot.
The Vatican physician was summoned at once, and rushed to Alfonso’s side. Fortunately, the cut was long but not too deep. From what he could see, no major organs had been damaged, and the quick thinking of the guard had stopped the young prince from bleeding to death.
A practical and experienced man, the Vatican physician looked around quickly, then motioned to one of the other guards to hand over a flask of brandy. He poured the alcohol into the open wound, and began to stitch it closed. But there was little he could do for the young man’s once-handsome face, except place a compress on his shattered nose and pray it would heal without too much ruin.
Alexander was called from his table by Duarte and informed secretly of the incident.
The Pope ordered Alfonso to be carried to his private chambers and put to bed in one of his own rooms. Sixteen of his finest guards were called to act as sentinels. He then instructed Duarte to send an urgent message to the king of Naples, explaining what had happened to his nephew, and requesting that he send his own physician, as well as Sancia, to Rome to nurse her brother and comfort Lucrezia.
Alexander dreaded telling his daughter what had happened, but he knew he must. Returning to the table, he stood directly before her. “There has been an accident in the square. Your beloved husband, Alfonso, has been attacked by several treacherous scoundrels.”
Lucrezia’s expression was one of shock. She stood up immediately. “Where is he? Is he harmed badly?”
“The wounds are quite severe,” Alexander said. “But with prayer, we hope not fatal.”
Lucrezia turned to her brothers. “Chez, Jofre, do something! Find the villains, lock them in a pen, and have the wild dogs rip at their flesh.” She began to run then, and cry. “Papa, take me to him.”
Alexander quickly led the way, with Lucrezia, Cesare, and Jofre following.
Young Alfonso lay unconscious, his body covered with cotton sheeting, blood streaming in great streaks from each of the wounds on his face.
The moment Lucrezia saw him, she screamed and then collapsed. It wa
s her brother Jofre who caught her and carried her to a waiting chair. Cesare’s face was covered with a carnival mask, and yet Jofre noticed that he seemed to betray little of the shock that he himself had felt. “Brother,” Jofre asked, “who would have reason to attack?”
Only Cesare’s eyes showed, and they glittered like coal. “Baby brother, each of us has more enemies than we can imagine,” he said. Then, reluctantly, he offered, “I will see if there is anything I can discover,” and he left the room.
The moment Lucrezia came back to herself, she ordered the servants to bring her some clean bandages and warm water. She then carefully lifted the sheet to see what further damage had been done to her beloved, but when she saw the slice from neck to navel she felt sickened and quickly took her seat again.
Jofre stood by, and together they spent the night waiting for Alfonso’s eyes to open. But it was two days before he even stirred, and by that time the physician from Naples as well as Sancia had arrived. Sancia, distraught, bent to kiss her brother’s forehead but could find no place left uninjured, and so she lifted his hand and placed a kiss upon his bruised and blackened fingers.
She kissed both Lucrezia and her husband, Jofre, who even in these dire circumstances could not hide his pleasure at seeing her. To Jofre, Sancia looked more beautiful than ever; her dark hair lush and curling, her cheeks flushed with fear for her brother, and her eyes shiny with tears made him love her all the more.
She sat next to Lucrezia and held her hand. “My sweet sister,” Sancia said. “How dreadful that such terrible villains should harm our prince of grace. I am here now, so you may rest without worry, for I will care for my brother in your place.”
Lucrezia was so grateful to see Sancia that she began to cry again. Sancia soothed her. “Where is Cesare? Has he discovered anything of value? Has he captured the attackers?”
Lucrezia was so weary that all she could do was shake her head. “I must rest,” she told Sancia, “but only for a brief time. Then I’ll return to wait for Alfonso to wake, for I want mine to be the first face he sees when he opens his eyes.”
She left them then and walked with Jofre to Santa Maria in Portico, where she greeted her children and Adriana, and then lay exhausted on her bed. But just before she fell into a long dreamless sleep, something struck her and disturbed her.
Her brother Cesare. His expression when he heard the news—or rather, his lack of expression. What went on beneath that mask?
Several days later, Jofre and Sancia were finally alone in their chambers. It had been days since she’d arrived, and he had been longing for time alone with her, yet he understood her concern for her brother as she attended to him.
Now, as she undressed for bed, Jofre came up to her and put his arms around her. “I have truly missed you,” he said. “And I am sorry about the tragedy that has befallen your brother.”
Standing naked, Sancia placed her arms around Jofre’s neck, and in a rare moment of tenderness put her head on his shoulder. “It’s your brother we must speak about,” Sancia said softly.
Jofre moved away so he could see her face. She was strikingly beautiful, and her distress over Alfonso made her look softer than usual. “There is something about Cesare that troubles you?” he asked.
Sancia climbed into bed, and motioned to Jofre to join her. She leaned on her side as he undressed. “There is much about Cesare that troubles me,” she said. “Those freakish masks he has taken to wearing make him appear altogether sinister.”
“They are to cover the marks of the pox, Sancia,” Jofre said. “He is embarrassed by them.”
“Jofre, it’s not only that,” Sancia said. “It is more the mystery that has taken hold of him since he is back from France. He is different, I feel it. Whether he is intoxicated by his own power, or the pox has invaded his brain as well as his face, I feel frightened for us all.”
“It is his wish to protect our family, to make Rome strong, to unify the city-states so they may be ruled properly under the Holy Father,” Jofre said.
Sancia’s voice was strong. “It is no secret that I hold no affection for your father since he sent me away. If it was not for my brother’s well-being, I would not step foot in Rome again. If you wish to be with me you will have to return to Naples, for I do not trust this Pope.”
Jofre said, “You are still angry with him, and for good reason. But it is possible your hatred for him will pass in time.”
Sancia knew better, but she understood that both she and Alfonso were in a dangerous circumstance, and so this time she held her tongue. Yet she wondered just what Jofre thought about his father—what he would even dare to feel.
He had climbed into bed alongside her now, and was leaning on his arm facing her; and again, as before, she was aware of his innocence. “Jofre,” she said, touching his cheek, “I have always admitted that when we married I found you young and thought you slow-witted. But since I’ve begun to understand you, I see the goodness of your soul. I know you are capable of love in ways others in your family are not.”
“Crezia loves,” Jofre defended. Remembering how loyally his brother had kept his secret, he was tempted to add, and Cesare loves. But instead he held his tongue.
“Yes, Crezia does love, and that is unfortunate, for her heart will be torn to pieces by the boundless ambition of both your father and your brother,” Sancia said. “Can’t you see who they are?”
“Father believes in his mission to the church,” Jofre explained. “And Cesare wishes Rome to be as formidable as it was in the time of his namesake, Julius Caesar. He believes his calling is to fight holy wars.”
Sancia smiled gently at Jofre. “Have you ever considered what your calling is? Has anyone ever asked, or noticed? And how is it you can keep from hating the brother who steals the admiration of your father, or the father who scarcely acknowledges you?”
Jofre ran his hand over the smooth olive skin of her shoulders. The touch of her flesh gave him great pleasure. “I dreamed, as I was growing up, of becoming a cardinal. Always. The smell of Papa’s garments, when he held me as a very young child and I rested on his shoulder, filled me with the love of God and the desire to serve him. But before I was able to choose, Father found a use for me in Naples. In my marriage to you. And so it was that I came to love you with the love I’d saved for God.”
His total devotion to her only increased her desire to show him how much had been stolen from him.
“The Holy Father is often ruthless in his aims,” Sancia said. “Do you see that ruthlessness, though it’s cloaked in reason? And Cesare’s ambition approaches madness—do you not see that?”
Jofre closed his eyes. “My love, I see more than you know.”
Sancia kissed him passionately, and they made love. He was a kind and careful lover after these years, for she had taught him. And above all, he wished to bring her pleasure.
Afterward, they lay together, and though Jofre was silent, Sancia felt she must warn him in order to protect herself. “Jofre, my love,” she said. “If your family tried to kill my brother, or at the very least didn’t try to stop it, and they have sent me away for political gain, how much longer do you think we will be safe? How much longer do you think they will allow us to be together?”
Jofre said menacingly, “I will allow nothing to separate us.” It was not so much a statement of love as a promise to avenge.
Cesare had spent the morning riding through the streets of Rome questioning the citizens about Alfonso’s attack. Had anyone heard rumors of strangers in the city? Had anyone seen anything that could help in the search? When nothing came of his questioning, he returned to the Vatican, where Alexander reminded him to meet with Cardinal Riario to discuss plans for the jubilee.
They had lunch together on the terrace of the cardinal’s palace, and Cesare offered compensation for the many planned festivals, as well as the cleanup of the city.
Afterward, they walked down the narrow alley to the shop of an art dealer who sold antiquities. C
ardinal Riario had a fine private collection, and the dealer, who came highly recommended, had an exquisite new sculpture that the cardinal wanted to consider.
After several minutes they stopped in front of a heavy carved wooden door, and the cardinal knocked. An elderly man with crossed eyes, long gray hair, and a sly smile opened the door to let them in.
The cardinal introduced them. “Giovanni Costa, I bring the great Cesare Borgia, captain general, to see your statues.”
Gio Costa was effusive in his greeting, and enthusiastically led them through his shop to a courtyard filled with statues. Cesare looked around the cluttered workspace. On tables, and all over the dust-covered ground, there were arms, legs, unfinished busts, and other bits of half-sculpted marble. In the far corner of the courtyard, there was an object draped and covered with a cloth.
Curious, Cesare pointed to it. “What is over there?”
Costa led them to the covered piece. With great drama, and a grand sweeping motion, he whisked away the cover. “This is probably the most magnificent piece I have ever had in my possession.”
Cesare involuntarily drew in a breath as his eyes fell upon an exquisitely carved white marble Cupid. Its eyes were half closed, with full lips curved sweetly, its expression at once dreamlike and filled with longing. So translucent it seemed carved of light, with wings so delicate they made one believe that the cherub could take flight at will. The beauty of it, its sheer perfection, took his breath away.
“What is the price?” Cesare asked.
Costa pretended not to want to sell it. “When it becomes known that I have it,” he said, “the price will go through the sky.”
Cesare laughed and repeated, “How much will you take for it now?” He thought of Lucrezia, how she would love it.
“Today, for Your Eminence, only two thousand ducats,” he said.