The Family
The battle began badly for Cesare. Vitelli’s cannons fired again and again at the walls of the fortress, yet only managed to create a small breach. Unfortunately, when they tried to storm the breach Cesare’s men were beaten off by Astorre Manfredi’s local Italian infantrymen, and suffered a heavy loss.
In Cesare’s camp, quarrels broke out between the Italian mercenary commanders and his Spanish captains, each blaming the other for the defeat.
The weather grew bitterly cold, and everything froze as winter arrived. The troops began to complain; Gian Baglioni, one of Cesare’s renowned condottieri, became enraged by Spanish criticism and took his men home to Perugia.
Cesare knew that with all these difficulties this battle could not be won in winter; it would have to wait for spring. And so he left a small force to surround the city and sent the remainder of his soldiers to the local villages that peppered the Rimini road. He told them to plan for a long winter stay, and to prepare to resume the battle in spring.
Cesare himself went to Cesena. This town, formerly ruled by the Malatesta family, who fled at the news of his coming, had a great castle, and citizens who were known throughout Italy to be fierce in battle but fun-loving in life. He took over the Palazzo Malatesta, and found pleasure in inviting the citizens of the town to look around the glamorous and ornate rooms that their former masters had lived in and loved, in order to show them what their hard work and sacrifice had wrought.
In contrast to their former rulers, Cesare played among the people. During the daytime he took part in all the classic tournaments that were held, and even jousted with the nobles who had stayed behind. He found great delight in going to their festivals, dances, and fairs and the citizens of Cesena enjoyed him and were flattered by his company.
At one such evening fair, Cesare found a large hall set aside for wrestling matches. Straw covered the floor, and in the center they had constructed a wooden ring in which muscular young contestants grappled as they dripped with sweat and cursed each other.
Cesare searched the crowded room for a worthy contestant. There, standing near the ring, he saw a big, bald man, built as solid as a stone wall. He was a head taller than Cesare, and twice as wide. When Cesare asked about him, he was told the man was a farmer named Zappitto, and that he was currently the town champion.
But the townsman who gave Cesare this information was also quick to add, “He will not compete tonight.”
Cesare decided to approach Zappitto himself. “My good man,” Cesare said, “I have heard of your reputation. Would you consider honoring me with a match on this fine night, as you are the town champion?”
Zappitto grinned, showing his blackened teeth. He would be much admired in the town when he defeated the son of a Pope. And so it was agreed, the match was on.
Cesare and Zappitto removed their jackets, shirts, and boots. Cesare was muscular, but the champion had biceps and forearms twice the size of his. This provided the challenge Cesare needed.
The two men stepped into the ring.
“Two falls out of three,” the referee called aloud, and suddenly the crowd was silent.
The two men circled each other several times; then, suddenly, the huge man rushed Cesare. But Cesare ducked, and threw his weight at the legs of Zappitto. Using the weight and force of his opponent, Cesare threw him up and over his body, and Zappitto slammed to the floor on his back. As the champion lay stunned, Cesare dropped on his chest, scoring an immediate fall.
“One fall for the challenger!” the referee shouted.
The surprised crowd sat in silence for a moment, then began to shout and applaud.
Cesare and Zappitto went back to opposite sides of the ring.
The referee cried, “Go!”
Again the two men circled each other. But Zappitto was not a fool. This time there was no blind rush. He took his time and continued to circle.
Cesare made the first move. He whipped his leg against the knees of his rival, in an attempt to knock the farmer’s legs out from under him. But it was like kicking a tree trunk. Nothing happened.
Now Zappitto, who moved more quickly than Cesare expected, caught hold of Cesare’s foot and began whirling him around in circles, until Cesare’s head was spinning. The huge man then moved his grip to Cesare’s thigh and lifted him onto his own shoulders, spinning him around twice more. Finally he slammed Cesare facedown onto the straw and pounced on his groggy opponent, flipping him over and pressing his back to the floor.
The crowd roared as the referee called, “One fall for the champion!”
It took Cesare a minute or two to clear his head.
Then he was ready.
As the referee cried, “Go!” Cesare came out quickly.
He planned to grab Zappitto’s hand and fingers in a grip he had learned in Genoa. Then he would force the fingers back, and when the big man tried to step backward to avoid the pressure he would throw his own leg quickly behind Zappitto’s knees and push him over his own leg onto his back.
With this in mind, Cesare managed to grasp the farmer’s huge hand. With all his strength, he began to push Zappitto’s fingers backward. But to his surprise they were stiff as iron pipes.
Then slowly, sweating with the effort, Zappitto closed his fingers around Cesare’s hand, crushing his knuckles together. Cesare kept himself from crying out, and tried to use his free arm to get a headlock on Zappitto, but the big man caught that arm as well. Now, with a frown and a look of grave intensity on his face, Zappitto began to crush the knuckles of both Cesare’s hands.
The pain was so intense it took Cesare’s breath away, but in a strong last effort Cesare swung both his legs up and wrapped them around his rival’s gigantic waist. His legs were muscular and strong, and with all his might Cesare tried to squeeze the breath out of Zappitto. The farmer, with a loud growl, simply threw his entire weight forward, easily driving Cesare onto the floor on his back.
Zappitto quickly lay on top of him.
“Fall and the match!” cried the referee.
When he lifted Zappitto’s arm in victory, the crowd applauded happily. Their champion had won.
Cesare shook Zappitto’s hand and congratulated him. “A worthy contest,” he said. Cesare then grabbed for his jacket, which he had placed alongside the ring, and there he found his purse.
With a deep bow, and a charming smile, he handed it to Zappitto.
Now, the crowd went wild with enthusiasm. They shouted and cheered. Not only did the new grande signore treat them well, he shared their pleasures. He danced, wrestled, and more important was even gracious in defeat.
Cesare engaged in these festivals and tournaments not for his pleasure alone, though he did enjoy them, but because winning the hearts of the people was part of his plan to unify the area and bring peace to all his subjects. Yet goodwill was not enough. Cesare also ordered his troops not to rape, loot, or harm the townspeople of the territories he conquered in any way.
Therefore Cesare was angry when, on a cold winter morning, only a week after his wrestling match with Zappitto, one of his guards brought three infantrymen to him in chains.
The sergeant of the guard, one Ramiro da Lorca, was a tough Roman veteran, and he announced that the three had been drinking all day. “But more important, Captain General,” Ramiro said. “They broke into a butcher shop, stole two chickens and a leg of mutton, and beat the son of the butcher bloody when he tried to stop them.”
Cesare approached the three men, who now huddled miserably on the steps of his palazzo. “Are you guilty, as the sergeant claims?”
The oldest man, almost thirty, spoke up in a false and pleading tone. “Your Worship, all we did was fetch us some meager food. We was hungry, Your Worship; we just . . . ”
Sergeant da Lorca interrupted. “That’s nonsense, sir. These men were paid regular, like everyone else. They’d no need to steal.”
Alexander had always told Cesare that choices had to be made when one was a leader of men. Difficult choices. Now he
looked at the three men, and at the crowd of townspeople who had gathered in the square. “Hang them,” Cesare said.
The prisoner spoke as though he had not heard Cesare. “It was just some chickens and a bit of meat, Your Worship. Nothing serious.”
Cesare walked toward him. “You misunderstand, my man. It is not just some chickens. At the command of the Holy Father, every man in this army has been well paid. Why? So they won’t steal from or brutalize the people of the towns we conquer. My soldiers have been given enough food, and comfortable quarters, in order to prevent any harm to the locals. I have done all of this so that the citizens of the towns we conquer will not hate the papal forces. They don’t have to love us, but my hope is that they will, at least, not despise us. What you fools have done is spoil my plan, and violate a command of the Holy Father himself.”
That evening at sunset the three prisoners, soldiers of the papal army, were hanged in the square as an example to all the other papal troops, and as an apology to every citizen of Cesena.
Afterward, in taverns and houses throughout the town and along the country roads, people celebrated, and all agreed better times were coming. For the new ruler, Cesare Borgia, was just.
As spring approached, Cesare’s force was strengthened by a French contingent sent by King Louis. A Milanese friend also highly recommended the artist, engineer, and inventor Leonardo da Vinci, who was claimed to be an expert in modern warfare.
When da Vinci arrived at the Malatesta Palace, he found Cesare poring over a map of the fortifications at Faenza. “These walls seem to shake off our bombardment like a dog shaking off water. How can we ever create a breach wide enough to allow a successful attack by cavalry and infantry?”
Da Vinci smiled, his curly brown hair hanging in long limp strands that almost covered his face. “Not difficult. Not difficult at all, Captain General.”
“Please explain, Maestro,” Cesare said with interest.
Da Vinci began, “You simply use my movable ramp-tower. I know, you are thinking that siege towers have been used for centuries and that they don’t work. But my tower is different from the others. It is made in three separate parts, and can be wheeled to the walls of the fortress at the last moment of attack. Inside, the ladders lead to a covered staging area large enough to hold thirty men. They are protected in the front by a hinged wooden barrier that can be lowered like a drawbridge to the top of the wall, creating a ramp up which the thirty men race. Then they can hurl themselves into the battlements with their weapons in hand, while thirty more men quickly replace them in the staging area. Within three minutes, ninety men can be inside the walls hacking away at the enemy. In ten minutes more there can be three hundred, which is what my tower holds.” Da Vinci stopped, breathless.
“Maestro, that’s brilliant!” Cesare said, with a loud and boisterous laugh.
“But truly, the most brilliant feature of my tower,” da Vinci said, “is that you will never have to use it.”
“I don’t understand,” Cesare said, puzzled.
Da Vinci’s stern face relaxed. “Your diagram shows that the walls of Faenza are thirty-five feet high. Several days before the battle, you must circulate the word to the enemy that you are about to use my new tower. And that it can blow a hole in any wall up to forty feet high. Can you do that?”
Cesare said, “Of course. Every tavern on the Rimini road is filled with men who’ll race back to Faenza with that news.”
“Then you begin construction of the tower, and make certain it’s within sight of the enemy.” Da Vinci unfolded a sheet of parchment on which the massive three-part tower was beautifully sketched. “I have the design right here,” he said. But alongside the drawing, each part was described in a language that Cesare could not read.
Noting Cesare’s puzzled expression, da Vinci gave a small laugh. “It is a special trick of mine to deceive spies and plagiarists, for one never knows who will try to steal from you. In most of my designs, I write so that the only way to read it is to hold it before a mirror. Then the writing becomes perfectly clear.”
Cesare smiled, for he admired cautious men.
Da Vinci continued. “Now, Captain General, the enemy has heard about the fearsome tower. They watch it as it is constructed. And they know they’ve not much time. The tower will come, and with thirty-five-foot walls they’ll be overrun. What do they do? They build up the walls, they pile stone upon stone around the fortress until the walls are ten feet higher. But they have made a terrible error. What did they forget? Those walls are no longer stable, for the base must be fortified to hold that extra weight. But by the time they reason that out . . . your artillery fires.”
Cesare collected his army from all the neighboring towns, and his men told anyone who would listen in every local tavern about Cesare Borgia’s stupendous new tower.
As da Vinci suggested, Cesare had his men start construction within sight of Faenza. When Cesare’s forces took their positions around the city and his cannons were brought forward, Cesare could see the frantic effort beginning. Men raced around the ramparts carrying and placing huge stones one atop another, on the fortress walls. Amused, Cesare delayed the attack to give them more time.
Now Cesare sent for Captain Vito Vitelli. They stood in his tent overlooking the unfortunate city.
“Here’s what I wish, Vito,” Cesare said. “Direct all your fire at the very base of the wall between those two towers.” He pointed at an area more than wide enough for his army to pass through.
“At the base, Captain?” Vitelli asked, incredulously. “That’s where we aimed last winter and failed miserably. We should fire at the ramparts now. At least that way we can kill their men a few at a time.”
Cesare wanted no one to know the secret of da Vinci’s tower, for later there might be other towns on which he’d wish to use it.
“Vito, just do as I say,” Cesare instructed. “Fire every shot at the base.”
The artillery commander looked puzzled, but consented. “As you wish, Cesare. But it will be a waste of shot.” He bowed slightly and left.
Cesare could see Vitelli giving orders to his artillerymen, who then moved the cannons toward the area Cesare had marked. The men cranked the guns to lower the angle of their fire.
Cesare commanded the infantry and light cavalry to gather just behind the guns. He had put on his own armor hours before. Now he directed his men-at-arms to ready themselves and their horses, for they were to remain mounted. They grumbled. The siege could last for months. Were they to remain in the saddle until summer?
When Cesare was certain his forces were ready, he gave Vitelli the signal to begin the bombardment.
The condottieri in turn shouted, “Fire!”
The cannons roared once, reloaded, and roared again. Cesare saw the balls smash into the walls just three or four feet above the ground. On and on the relentless cannonade continued. Twice, Vitelli looked back at Cesare as if he were insane. Twice, Cesare signaled to continue firing as he had ordered.
Suddenly, they heard a low rumble. And it grew louder and louder as the entire fifty-foot section of the wall fell in on itself, crumbling to the ground and raising a huge cloud of dust. They could hear the screams of the soldiers who had been defending that part of the wall—those few who still lived.
Immediately, Cesare called for his troops to charge forward.
With a great cheer the light cavalry flew into the breach, followed by the infantry. All of them would fan out inside the walls, to attack again from the rear.
Cesare waited just four minutes. Then he gave the signal for the charge of his men-at-arms.
The reserve forces of the town raced to the area of the breach and prepared to defend the opening. But they were trampled to dust by the onrushing of Cesare’s men.
The dismayed Faenzans on the sections of the wall that were still standing found themselves attacked from the rear. The crossbows, swords, and lances of Cesare’s soldiers quickly felled them. Within minutes, a Faenzan officer
shouted, “We surrender! Surrender! ”
Cesare saw the local soldiers lay down their arms and raise their hands. He nodded, then signaled his commanders to stop the slaughter. And so it was that Faenza passed into papal control.
Their ruler, Prince Astorre Manfredi, was given safe conduct by Cesare, and permission to leave for Rome. Instead, impressed by Cesare and his army, craving adventure, he asked if he might stay for a time, perhaps to serve on Cesare’s staff. Cesare was surprised, but agreed. Manfredi was sixteen years old, but he was a young man of intelligence and good judgment. Cesare liked him.
After a few days’ rest, Cesare was ready to push his men forward once again.
He gave da Vinci a substantial quantity of ducats, crammed into a leather pouch, and now asked him to accompany the army on its march. But da Vinci shook his head. “I must return to the arts. For the sweaty young stonecutter Michelangelo Buonarroti is getting good commissions, while I am wasting my time on a battlefield. He has talent, I’ll admit, but no depth, no subtlety. I must return.”
Now, as Cesare mounted his white charger and prepared to ride north, he bid da Vinci good-bye. The maestro reached up, hand ing Cesare a sheet of parchment. “It’s a list of the various skills I practice, Principe . . . painting, frescoes, plumbing systems . . . many things. Payment is something we can discuss.” He smiled, and then had a thought. “Excellency, I’ve done a fresco of the Last Supper in Milan. I’d love the Holy Father to see it. Do you think he would?”
Cesare nodded. “I have seen it, when I was in Milan. Truly wonderful. The Holy Father has a great love of all things beautiful. I’m certain he will be interested.” He folded the parchment carefully and slid it into a pocket of his cape. Then, with a salute to da Vinci, he turned his spirited mount into the road leading north.