Alfonso d’Este sent a message to the Pope, explaining that the duchess of Ferrara, Alexander’s daughter, was suffering from the fever, shaking chills, and sweats. He explained that she had recently fallen into a serious delirium, and that Alexander might wish to send his own physicians from Rome.
Alexander and Cesare were terrified at the thought of losing Lucrezia. Both feared she might have been poisoned. And so the Pope sent instructions, written in his own hand, that only the physician he was sending was to treat her.
On that very night, Cesare, disguised as a Moorish peasant, with darkened skin and a hooded gown, accompanied this physician to Lucrezia’s bedside.
Not knowing who these men were when they arrived in Ferrara—just that they were sent from Rome—both Alfonso and Ercole d’Este stayed in their own quarters while a manservant led Cesare and the physician up the stairs to Lucrezia’s room.
Though she was lethargic and delirious, Lucrezia recognized Cesare at once. Her skin was white and pale, her pasty lips cracked with fever and her stomach too tender to touch from the constant vomiting that had plagued her for more than two weeks now. She tried to greet Cesare, but her voice was so hoarse and weak that no sound escaped her lips.
Once the manservant had gone, Cesare bent to kiss her. “My princess looks a little pale tonight,” he whispered to her. “The glow of rosy cheeks does not grace your face. Could it be that love eludes you in this place?”
Lucrezia tried to smile back, to acknowledge his humor, but she could not even lift her arm to touch his face.
It was apparent that her condition was critical; still, Cesare became more upset when the physician confirmed it.
Cesare strode to the washstand, shed his hooded robe, and scrubbed the stain from his face. Then he ordered a servant to fetch the duke.
Moments later Ercole arrived, plainly alarmed at being summoned to Lucrezia’s room. He saw Cesare at once.
“Cesare Borgia!” Ercole gasped. “Why are you here?”
Cesare’s voice harbored no warmth. “I have come to visit my sister. Am I not welcome? Is there something in the shadows I should not see?”
“No, of course not,” Ercole said, stammering with nervousness. “I . . . I am just surprised to see you.”
“I will not stay long, dear Duke,” Cesare said. “Only long enough to deliver a message from my father—and from me as well.”
“Yes?” Ercole said, his eyes narrowed now with suspicion and dread.
Cesare put his hand on his sword as if ready to fight all of Ferrara. Yet his voice was cold and reasonable as he moved close to Ercole and spoke. “The Holy Father and I are most desirous that my sister be restored to health. If she should die, we will surely blame her hosts and their city. Am I clear?”
“Am I to assume this is a threat?” Ercole asked.
“I believe you understand me,” Cesare said, his voice more steady than he felt. “My sister must not die. For if she does, she will not die alone!”
Cesare and the physician stayed for several days. Finally, it was decided that for a cure, Lucrezia must be bled. But she refused it.
“I will not be drained white,” she cried, shaking her head and kicking her legs with what little energy she had.
Cesare sat beside her, holding and soothing her, imploring her to be brave. “You must live for me,” he whispered. “For what other reason should I live?”
Lucrezia finally stopped struggling and hid her face in Cesare’s chest so as not to see what was being done. As Cesare held her foot the doctor made several small cuts in her ankle and on the tops of her feet, until enough blood was let that the physician felt she could recover.
Before he left, Cesare kissed Lucrezia and promised to visit her again shortly, for now he was living in Cesena, only hours from Ferrara.
Lucrezia did not die. Over the following weeks, she began to heal. She began to feel warm again, her soaking sweats ceased, and she remained awake more of the time, without falling into the deep and dreamless sleep of her darkest nights. Although her child was stillborn, she gradually regained her health and vitality.
It was only in the quiet moments of the dark night that she grieved for this small child, for she had come to understand that time spent in grief was time wasted—that there had been too much grief in her life. And if she were to make the most of what she had been given, and do the greatest good, she must focus on what could be done, not on what she was powerless to change. And so it was that she began to live a life of virtue.
By her first anniversary in Ferrara, she had begun, gradually, to win the love and respect of her subjects, as well as the love of the strange and powerful d’Este family with whom she now lived.
The old duke, Ercole himself, was the first to appreciate her shining intelligence. As the months passed he began to value her counsel even more than that of his sons, and to assign critical government decisions and duties to her care.
27
JOFRE AND SANCIA lay sound asleep in their apartments in the Vatican when, without warning or explanation, several papal guards entered and pulled her from their bed. As Sancia kicked and screamed, Jofre shouted his resistance.
“This is an outrage!” Jofre said to one of the young lieutenants. “Have you spoken to my father about this?”
“It was the Holy Father himself who gave the order,” the soldier confessed.
Jofre rushed to the Pope’s quarters, where he found Alexander sitting at his desk in his study. “What is the meaning of this, Father?” he asked.
The Pope looked up and answered crossly. “I could say it was due to the looseness of your wife’s morals—for she is a spicy little clove—or your inability to help her keep her temper,” Alexander said. “But it is far less personal this time. I seem to be unable to impress upon the good king of Naples, who is aligned with Ferdinand of Spain, the importance of French interest in Naples. Louis has requested that I do something, and so to prove my allegiance I have.”
“What has this to do with Sancia?” Jofre asked. “She is but a girl, and she has done nothing in regard to France.”
“Jofre. Please! Don’t be a hairless eunuch!” Alexander said impatiently. “Your brother’s welfare is at stake; the papacy rests on its ability to support its alliances. And at this moment, our strongest alliance is with France.”
“Father,” Jofre said, his eyes lit with fire. “I cannot allow this, for Sancia can never love a man who cannot, at the very least, protect her from the dungeons.”
“She may send a message to her uncle, the king, and explain her need for assistance,” the Pope said.
In that moment Jofre had to look away from his father, for he feared the Pope would see the hatred written on his face. “Father,” Jofre said, “I will ask this one more time, as your son. You must free my wife, for otherwise you will cause the end of my marriage. And I cannot allow that.”
Alexander seemed puzzled for a moment. What was this son saying? His wife, Sancia, had been trouble from the day she had arrived, and he had done nothing to harness her or even rein her in. What insolence now made him dare to tell his father—and the Holy Father as well—how to run the Holy Mother Church?
But the Pope’s voice held to reason, devoid of all emotion, when he answered this son. “Because you are my son, I will forgive you this trespass,” he said. “But if ever you speak in this way again, for any reason, I will have your head upon a pike, and I myself will swear to your heresy. Do you understand?”
Jofre took a deep breath. “How long will my wife be imprisoned?”
“Ask the king of Naples,” Alexander said. “For it is all up to him. The moment he agrees that Louis shall wear the crown is the moment your wife goes free.”As Jofre turned to go, the Pope added, “From this day forward, you will be guarded day and night to keep you from temptation.”
All Jofre asked was, “May I see her?”
Alexander looked surprised. “What kind of father would I be if I would keep my son from his wife?”
he asked. “Do you think me a monster?”
Jofre could not keep the tears from streaming down his face, for on this night he had lost not only his wife, but his father as well.
Sancia was taken to the cellar of the fortress at Sant’ Angelo, and placed in a dungeon alone. From the cells around her she could hear the cries and screams of the others, who moaned and shouted obscenities to the papal guards.
Those who recognized her taunted her, and those who didn’t wondered how such a fine-fashioned young woman could have placed herself in such a situation.
Sancia herself was livid, and raging mad. This time he had done it. The Pope who had once before sent her away had now sealed his fate; for she would make certain, even from this place, that she helped take him down. He would sit on the throne of the Holy Father no longer, she vowed; if she had to give her life to that one mission, it would be worth more than all the ducats in the world.
When Jofre came, Sancia had already overturned the cot and dumped its straw onto the dungeon floor. She had taken the water and food she had been brought, and even the wine, and tossed it against the small wooden door, leaving pieces of her dinner stuck to it.
Jofre was surprised to find that when he greeted her, she came to him and embraced him. “Husband, you must help me,” she told him. “If you love me, you must get a message to my family. You must let my uncle know what has become of me.”
“I will do that,” Jofre said, holding her and smoothing her hair. “I will do more than that. And in the meantime, I will spend as many hours in this dungeon as you wish me to.”
Jofre lifted the cot then and both of them sat upon it, his arm around her shoulders, comforting her. “Will you bring me paper at once, and make certain the message goes quickly?” she asked.
“I will,” Jofre said, “for I cannot bear being without you.”
Sancia smiled then, and he felt hopeful.
“We are as one,” he said. “And therefore what they do to you, they do to me as well.”
“I know it is a sin to hate another,” Sancia said. “But for the hate I hold against your father, I am willing to stain my soul with sin. No matter that he is the Holy Father: he is as evil in my eyes as the greatest of the fallen angels.”
Jofre had no desire to defend him. “I will write to my brother, Cesare,” he said. “For I have no doubt he will help us as soon as he returns.”
“Why? I have not seen this side of him that makes him so endearing,” Sancia said.
“I have my reasons,” Jofre said. “My brother Cesare will understand, and I trust he will release you from this hell.”
When he kissed her good-bye, he held her longer than usual. And she allowed it.
But that night, once he had gone, one guard after another entered her cell and ravished her. They stripped her of her clothes, they kissed her lips and breathed their ugly breath into her face, and they pushed themselves inside her without any regard for her resistance. For once she had been placed among the prostitutes and thieves she was no longer under the protection of the Borgia Pope, and so they feared no punishment.
By the time her husband came to visit in the morning Sancia was dressed and washed again, but she had ceased to speak. And no matter what Jofre said to her she did not notice, for the light that had once shone so brightly in her sparkling green eyes had been extinguished, and now they were merely a muddy gray.
Cesare Borgia controlled the Romagna now, at last. But there were other cities still to be conquered before he could accomplish his vision to unify all of Italy. There was Camerino, run by the Varano family, and Senigallia, where the della Rovere ruled. And there was Urbino, where Guido Feltra ruled as duke. Urbino seemed too powerful for Cesare’s army to attack; still, it blocked his route to the Adriatic, and could cut off communication with Pesaro and Rimini, if nothing were done to alter the situation in the Borgia’s favor.
And so Cesare’s campaign continued . . .
His first objective was the small city-state Camerino. Cesare assembled an army to strike north from Rome. There they would link up with one of Cesare’s Spanish captains and his troops that remained in the Romagna.
In order to accomplish his goal, however, he was forced to request that Guido Feltra allow the passage of his captain, Vito Vitelli, and his artillery through Feltra’s Urbino. Now, it was known throughout Italy that Feltra had little affection for the Borgia. Feltra, whose reputation as a condottiere was greater than his skill and intelligence, was eager to avoid an immediate confrontation, and so he granted Cesare permission—in order to disguise his true intention, which was to help Alessio Varano defend Camerino.
Unfortunately for the duke, Cesare’s spies discovered his plan, and Vitelli’s powerful artillery moved on Urbino. Without warning, both Cesare’s force from Rome and his army from the north arrived at the gates of the city.
That view of the entire papal force, with Cesare in his black battle armor riding his spirited charger back and forth before them, was enough to persuade Guido Feltra to flee.
The city quickly surrendered to Cesare—to the amazement not only of Italy but of all Europe, since the powerful duke of Urbino had before this day been considered invincible.
And so, as he had planned, Cesare moved on to Camerino. Without the help of Guido Feltra, that city also surrendered with little resistance.
Once Urbino and Camerino had been conquered, it appeared that nothing could stop Cesare from imposing his will—and papal rule—on any town or city in Italy.
In Florence that summer the afternoon sun hung high in the sky, a steaming red disk that burned hot on the city below. The windows of the Palazzo della Signoria opened wide to the square outside inviting flies, but no breeze cooled the stifling room. There the men of the Signoria sweated and fidgeted, anxious for the difficult session to be completed, so that they could rush home to a cool bath and a glass of chilled wine.
The most important matter to consider was the report of Niccolò Machiavelli, special emissary to the Vatican. That could foretell the future of their city.
The situation in the Papal States was a matter of growing concern. Cesare Borgia had threatened Florence itself on his last campaign, and they feared that the next time he might not be bought off so easily.
Machiavelli rose to address the Signoria. Despite the heat he wore a doublet of pearl-gray satin, and his gleaming white blouse remained dry and crisp.
“Excellencies,” he said, in a dramatic and eloquent voice, “you all know that Urbino has fallen, that the duke was taken by surprise. Some say by treachery, but if so it was not undeserved. Guido Feltra was clearly plotting against the Borgia, and they duped him in return. It would seem to be a case of frodi onorevoli—honorable fraud.” Machiavelli paced in front of them as he continued.
“Where does Cesare Borgia stand? Well, his army is large and well organized, and his men are loyal. It is known throughout all the cities and towns he has conquered that Cesare’s soldiers adore him. He has subdued the Romagna, and now Urbino. He terrified the Bolognese—and, if the truth be known, he has terrified us as well.” He placed his hand over his eyes in a theatrical gesture, to impress upon the members the severity of what he was about to say. “We cannot rely on the French to interfere with Cesare’s plans. It’s true, the French were suspicious of the Borgia in the revolt of Arezzo, and they were quite displeased by Cesare’s threatening Bologna and our own great city. But remember, Louis still needs the Pope’s support in dealing with Spain and Naples—and given the strength and skill of Cesare’s army, their position seems quite sensible.”
Machiavelli lowered his voice. “Now, I will share with you a confidence. Cesare has paid Louis a secret visit, traveling in disguise without guards. By placing himself totally in the power of the French king, and begging his forgiveness for Vitelli’s erroneous adventure in Arezzo, Cesare has healed whatever breach may have existed between France and the papacy. Therefore, this time, if Cesare attacks Bologna, I predict that the king will suppo
rt him. If he attacks Florence, the French may or may not interfere.”
A perspiring signor rose, mopping his forehead with a white linen handkerchief, his brow furrowed with worry. “What you seem to be telling us, Machiavelli, is that Cesare Borgia is unstoppable, and that those of us lucky enough to have villas in the mountains should flee.”
“I doubt it’s that bad, Excellency,” Machiavelli reassured. “So far our relationship with Cesare is amicable, and he has a genuine fondness for our city.
“But there is something else to consider, which may shift the balance of this equation. Cesare Borgia has defeated and humiliated a number of dangerous men by driving them from their territories, and though it is true that his army is loyal and his soldiers adore him, I am far less certain of his condottieri—for they are violent and unpredictable men, capable of jealousy and worse. I fear they will someday turn and seek to overthrow him. You see, while becoming the most powerful man in Italy, Cesare Borgia has built up a list of formidable enemies . . . a list not one of us would wish to share.”
In Magioni, at a castle in Orsini territory, the conspiracy began to take shape. Giovanni Bentivoglio of Bologna was determined to lead the conspiracy. A large, athletic man with crinkly peppered hair and coarse features, he smiled readily, and spoke in a voice rich with persuasion. But he had a dark side as well. Before he reached full manhood he had killed a hundred men, as part of a group of bandits. He had reformed to become a good ruler of Bologna, and all his fierce and bloodthirsty urges seemed to have fallen aside—that is, until he was threatened and humiliated by Cesare.
Bentivoglio held a meeting at his castle in Bologna and invited the short, stocky Guido Feltra, the displaced and outraged duke of Urbino. Feltra spoke so softly that one had to listen carefully to each word he said—unless one knew, of course, that with Guido Feltra each sentence held a threat.