24
AS CESARE MOVED his army northward up the Rimini-Bologna road toward Bologna itself, Astorre Manfredi rode beside him. Astorre had a pleasant disposition and a willingness to work hard. Each night he dined with Cesare and his commanders, entertaining them with ribald songs of the Faenzan peasants. After the evening meal, he listened to Cesare analyze their situation, and make plans for the following days.
At this point, Cesare faced serious strategic problems. He had almost completed the campaign to establish papal control over the Romagna, but he could not hope to take Bologna, for it was under French protection. Even if he could, he did not wish to antagonize King Louis, and he was certain that the Pope would not approve of such an attack.
The truth was, Cesare’s real objective was not the city of Bologna itself, but Castel Bolognese, a powerful fortress outside the city. And Cesare had a hidden card: the Bentivoglio, who ruled Bologna, knew only that the estimable Cesare Borgia and his troops were headed their way. Even Cesare’s commanders were unaware of his aims, and were worried about his plan to attack Bologna.
After much thought, and with great cunning, Cesare marched his men to within a few miles of the city gates. The ruler of Bologna, Giovanni Bentivoglio, a large man, rode out on a gigantic horse to meet with him. Behind him rode a standard bearer carrying his banner—a red saw on a field of white.
Bentivoglio, a strong leader but a reasonable man, approached Cesare. “Cesare, my friend. Must we battle? It is not likely that you will win—and even if you do, your French friends will destroy you. Is there no way I can induce you to abandon this foolish pursuit?”
After twenty minutes of intense bargaining Cesare agreed not to attack Bologna, and Bentivoglio agreed that in return Castel Bolognese would be given to Cesare. At Cesare’s request, to show good faith, Bologna would also provide troops for future papal campaigns.
The following day, Cesare’s men occupied Castel Bolognese. The powerful walls would help them ward off their enemies, the large underground storage rooms held vast munitions, and the officers’ quarters were unusually comfortable for a military fortress. Cesare and his commanders were pleased.
That night, Cesare entertained them with a sumptuous feast of roast kid swimming in a sauce of figs and peppers, along with dark red radicchio sautéed in olive oil and local herbs. They talked and sang and drank a great deal of red Frascati wine.
All his troops and infantrymen celebrated as well, as Cesare walked among them, thanking them and congratulating them on their victory. His army felt a great affection for him, and was as loyal to him as were the citizens of the towns he conquered.
After the meal, Cesare and his officers undressed and jumped into the castle’s steaming sulfur baths, which were fed from an underground spring. Finally, relaxed, they splashed around in the hot, muddy water, which smelled slightly of rotten eggs.
Later, one by one, Cesare’s commanders left the baths and washed themselves with buckets of clean cool water from a nearby well. Finally only Cesare and Astorre Manfredi remained, floating lazily in the warm sludgy waters.
After a moment or two, Cesare felt a hand on his inner thigh. Quite drunk, he reacted slowly as the fingers moved lightly upward to stroke and arouse him.
Suddenly alert, Cesare gently pushed Astorre’s hand aside. “I’m not that way, Astorre. It’s not you. It’s just not my preference.”
“Cesare, you don’t understand. This isn’t lust I feel for you,” Astorre said, sincerely. “I am truly in love with you and have been for quite some time.”
Cesare sat straight up in the muddy water, trying to collect his thoughts. “Astorre,” Cesare said, “I think of you as my friend. I like and admire you. But that is not all you hope for, is it?”
“No,” Astorre said, with some sadness. “It is not. I am in love with you in the same way Alexander the Great loved his Persian boy. In the way the English King Edward the Second loved Piers Gaveston. I am certain, at the risk of sounding foolish, that it is a true love.”
“Astorre,” Cesare said, softly but with certainty, “I can’t be that for you. I know many good men who are soldiers, athletes, even cardinals, who have such relationships and enjoy them. But that is not who I am, Astorre. That I cannot give. I can be your loyal friend, but not more.”
“I understand, Cesare,” Astorre said, but now he stood, embarrassed and distraught. “I will leave for Rome tomorrow.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Cesare said. “I think no less of you that you have claimed a love for me.”
“No, Cesare,” Astorre said. “I can no longer stay. I must either accept what you have said, and then it becomes too painful to be with you each day, or I must trick myself into believing there is hope. In that case I would keep trying for your attention until finally you became angry or, even worse, disgusted with me. No, I must go.”
At dawn the next day, Astorre shook the hand of each of the commanders. He turned to Cesare and embraced him, whispering in his ear, “Good-bye, my friend. My dreams will always be filled with what might have been.” Then, with a smile of affection, Astorre Manfredi swung into his saddle and rode south toward Rome.
That night, Cesare sat in his tent considering his next military target. When he realized that he had accomplished every goal his father had set for him, he knew the time had come for him to return to Rome.
Yet Cesare still had an appetite for conquest, as did his commanders, Vito Vitelli and Paolo Orsini. Now they urged him to attack Florence. Vitelli despised the Florentines, and Orsini wanted to restore the Medici, who had been longtime allies of his family. Cesare had a fondness for both Florence and the Medici—as well as loyalties from long ago. Still, he hesitated.
As the golden rays of morning sun filtered into his tent, Cesare considered his decision. Possibly Vitelli and Orsini were right; possibly they could take the city, and restore his Medici friends. But young and aggressive as he was, Cesare knew that an attack on Florence was an attack on France. Such an adventure would be foolhardy, for many lives would be lost; and even if he could take the city, the French would never let him keep it. Finally, he decided: rather than attacking the city, he would employ a strategy similar to the one he had used with the Bolognese.
He led his army southward into the Arno valley, bringing them, as at Bologna, to within a few miles of the city walls.
There the Florentine commander rode out to parley, accompanied by a small envoy of troops, with flags flying and the sun glinting off of their armor. Cesare saw them looking nervously at Vitelli’s cannons. He was certain they would want to avoid a battle. There was no castle or fort that Cesare sought, so this time he settled for a promise of a sizable annual payment, plus a continuing alliance against enemies of the Pope.
It was not a great victory. It had not restored the Medici. But still it was the right decision. And there were other lands to conquer.
Cesare now marched his army southwest to the coastal city of Piombino. Unable to defend itself against the powerful force of the papal army, another city quickly surrendered.
Afterward, still restless, Cesare walked along the docks of Piombino. There, off the coast, he could see the island of Elba, with its famous and richly fed iron mines. Here was a target he might take! What a splendid conquest the island would make! What a prize for his father! But it seemed an impossible task, for Cesare had no naval experience.
He was about to abandon his latest dream when he sighted three men riding toward him from the direction of Rome. With astonishment, at last he discerned who it was: his brother, Jofre, along with Michelotto and Duarte Brandao.
Jofre strode forward to greet him. To Cesare he seemed broader, and somehow older. He wore a green velvet doublet with green and gold particolored hose. His blond hair flowed out from under a green velvet biretta. But his message was short and clear, though it was delivered with affection. “Father congratulates you on your brilliant campaign. And he is anxious for your return. He wishes me to tell you that
you are sorely missed. And he directs you to return to Rome without delay, for your deceptive tactics with the military near Bologna and Florence have brought resentment from the French king. Cesare, Father warns that nothing of that sort must occur again. Nothing.”
Cesare resented the use of his younger brother to deliver this message and he realized that Brandao and Michelotto were there in case he proved stubborn or resistant.
Cesare asked to speak privately with Duarte Brandao. As they walked along the docks, Cesare pointed out Elba lying offshore in the distant haze. “Do you know how rich those iron mines are, Duarte?” he asked. “Enough to finance a campaign against the entire world. I would like to conquer it for Father. It would make a fine gift for his coming birthday, and I’ve seldom had such a chance to surprise him. What else can one give the Holy Father? He’s been so serious of late, that I would enjoy seeing him roll with laughter. And by next year it may fall under French protection if nothing else is done. Yet no matter how much I want it for him, at the moment the challenge lies beyond my skills.”
Brandao remained silent, gazing out into the haze. Cesare appeared so filled with excitement at the prospect of such a grand gift for the Pope that Duarte was moved to help him. He turned and looked at eight Genoese galleons tied up at the wharf. “I think I can accomplish what you wish, Cesare, if your men are willing. At one time, long ago, I commanded ships and fought battles at sea.”
For the first time in Cesare’s life, Duarte was speaking of the past with longing. Cesare hesitated a moment. Then, quietly, he asked, “England?”
Duarte stiffened, and Cesare knew he had been presumptuous. He put his arm around the older man. “Forgive me,” he said. “It’s not my affair. Just help me take that island.”
He felt Duarte relax. For another moment they stood quietly looking across the bay to Elba. Then Duarte pointed to the Genoese ships. “Those ancient, clumsy vessels, if sailed competently, are reliable, Cesare. And I am confident the defenders of the island worry more about pirates than invading armies. Their defenses—cannons, iron nets, and fire ships—will be concentrated in the harbor, where pirates are expected to attack. We will find a quiet beach on the other side of the island. There we will land enough of your army to take the place.”
“How will the horses and cannons fare on such a trip?”
“Not well, I’m afraid,” Duarte said. “The horses would create havoc and even carnage in their terror; and the cannons would roll and smash through the sides of our own ships, sinking them rather quickly. We will not take either. Infantry will be enough.”
After studying Genoese maps and planning for two days, the invasion force was ready. The eight galleons set sail crammed with infantrymen and their captains. They set sail waving gaily to their cavalry and artillery comrades left on the docks.
Their gaiety was short-lived. On the slow, rolling voyage across the bay and around the island, many of the men became violently ill, vomiting everywhere. Cesare himself was nauseated, but bit his lip trying fiercely to hide it. Michelotto and, surprisingly, Jofre, seemed unaffected.
Duarte, at perfect ease, ordered the ships into a quiet bay, its sandy beach white and shimmering. Behind the beach were scattered gray-green bushes and a few gnarled olive trees, with a path cutting through the hills. There was not a soul in sight.
The eight galleons pulled close to the shore, yet not close enough. With water five feet deep, the infantrymen were reluctant to wade to shore. Aware of their fear, Duarte ordered the men from each ship to fasten the long, heavy rope to its bow and heave the rope into the sea. Then one sailor who could swim well was chosen from each galleon and ordered to grab the rope and swim to the beach to tie it to one of the gnarled olive trees that lined the shore.
Next, Duarte asked Cesare to order half the men to strap their weapons to their backs. The other half were to remain on the ships until they saw the signal that the town had been taken.
They did as they were told, but not without grumbling. Duarte slipped over the side first; then, gripping his ship’s rope and holding it high so all could see, he waded hand over hand along the rope to the beach.
Cesare went over the side next, following Duarte along the rope to the shore. Reassured, one soldier after another went over the side clutching the taut line as he made his way to land, for anything was better than remaining on the swaying, rolling ships.
Once the troops landed and dried themselves in the sun, Cesare led them off the beach and up a steep and winding path through the hills. In an hour, they had reached the crest. From there they could look down on the town and the harbor.
As Duarte predicted, huge cast-iron cannons were aimed in fixed positions at the entrance to the harbor. An hour later, they could still see no movable artillery from the crest, and no more than one small defense unit of militia marching in the main square.
Silently, Cesare led his forces down the mountain path until they reached the edge of town.
“Charge! Charge! ” Cesare shouted, and they ran screaming and brandishing their weapons down the principal street and into the central square. The militia, vastly outnumbered, was taken by surprise and quickly surrendered.
The terrified townspeople scurried to their homes. Cesare sent a force to secure the massive cannons, and another to take possession of the iron mines, while Duarte led a contingent to seize the docks. Finally, Cesare ordered his standard bearer to raise the charging bull of the Borgia, and his own flame flag, on the empty flagpole in the town square.
When the nervous delegation of citizens arrived in the square, Cesare identified himself and advised them that the island was now under papal control, but he reassured them that they had nothing to fear.
By this time, his eight Genoan ships rounded the headland.
The troopers then built a fire on the beach to signal that the town had been taken, and that it was safe for the galleons to enter the harbor. As they sailed in flying the Borgia flag and tied up at the docks, the remaining soldiers disembarked.
After inspecting the iron mines and selecting a contingent of men to hold the island, the troops were ready to return to the mainland. Cesare loaded his men back onto the ships.
And so it was that, just four hours after their first landing on the beach, Cesare Borgia and Duarte Brandao had captured the island of Elba. Now Michelotto, Jofre, Cesare, and Duarte rode side by side on the long journey back to Rome.
25
CARDINAL DELLA ROVERE and Cardinal Ascanio Sforza met in secret over a lunch of pink salted prosciutto ham, roasted red peppers dripping with green olive oil dotted with several shiny cloves of garlic, and crusty loaves of freshly baked semolina bread. The fine red wine was plentiful, and helped to loosen their tongues.
Ascanio spoke first. “It was a mistake, placing my vote for Alexander in the last conclave. It is an impossible task being his vice-chancellor, for though his administrative skills are above reproach, he is too fond a father. And he indulges his children to such an extent that he will bankrupt the church by the time a new Pope takes the throne. Cesare Borgia’s desire to conquer and unite the territories in the Romagna has almost emptied the papal coffers through his endless payments to his troops. And no queen or duchess has as fine a wardrobe as this young son of the Pope.”
Cardinal della Rovere smiled knowingly. “But my dear Ascanio, you did not come all this way to discuss the sins of the Pope now, for there is nothing new here. There must be another reason that remains invisible to me.”
Ascanio shrugged. “What is there to say? My nephew Giovanni has been humiliated by the Borgia, and Pesaro now belongs to Cesare. My niece Caterina, a true virago, is being held in one of the Borgia castles and her territories have been conquered as well. My own brother, Ludovico, has been captured and relegated to a dungeon by the French, for they have Milan. Now I hear Alexander has made a secret pact with France and Spain to divide Naples, in order that Cesare may wear the crown. It is an abomination!”
“And your solutio
n?” della Rovere asked. He had expected Ascanio to come to him sooner, but now he felt the need for extra vigilance, for in a time of such treachery one could never be too cautious. Though the servants were sworn to have no eyes or ears, della Rovere and Ascanio alike knew that a few ducats could bring the deaf the gift of hearing and the blind the gift of sight. For those who suffered poverty, gold could always work more miracles than prayer.
And so when Ascanio spoke, he whispered. “When Alexander no longer sits on the throne as Pope, there is the hope our problems can be resolved. And there is no doubt that in a new conclave it is you who will be chosen.”
Della Rovere’s dark eyes looked like slits of black on his pale and puffy face. “I have seen no indication that Alexander is willing to step down. I hear that his health is quite good, and as for any other possibility, it is known that his son is a madman. Who would chance bringing him harm?”
Ascanio Sforza placed his hand on his chest and spoke with sincerity. “Cardinal, don’t misunderstand. This Pope has enemies who would be grateful for our help. And a younger son—one who has truly prayed for the hat of a cardinal. I am not suggesting that we take a hand in any deed that will stain our souls. I am suggesting nothing that would cause us danger,” he said. “I am only asking that we consider an alternative to this papacy—no more, no less.”
“Are you suggesting that this Pope might suddenly fall ill? A drink of wine, perhaps, a spoiled clam?” della Rovere asked.
Ascanio spoke loud enough for the servants to hear. “No one can attest to when the Heavenly Father will call one of his children home.”
Della Rovere digested what Ascanio said, making a mental list of the Borgia enemies. “Is it true that Alexander is planning a meeting with the duke of Ferrara to suggest a new marriage alliance for his daughter with the duke’s son, Alfonso?”