Once Cesare left to return to Rome, the troops he left behind within the gates of Senigallia had raped, looted, and pillaged the entire town. Not one of the women escaped—not even his sweet niece, Anna. And she was but a child of twelve.
The cardinal’s fury rose to such a fever that he was beyond even prayer. Instead he picked up his quill, and as he stood at his desk, his feet and legs trembling uncontrollably, he penned a message to Ascanio Sforza. “If the good in us holds to virtue,” he wrote, “evil will reign. For the greater good of God and the Holy Mother Church, we must now right the wrongs that have been done.” Then he gave the time and the place they should meet.
With his hands shaking, he held the sealing wax over his candle and watched the red drops fall slowly on the folded parchment. Then he took his stamp and impressed the warm wax with the head of the martyred Christ.
Cardinal della Rovere was about to call for a messenger when a sharp bolt of pain struck his head with such intensity as to force him to his knees. He covered his face with his hands, his head bowed. He tried to call out, but was rendered speechless by what he saw before him.
The vision, in slow motion, was of the standard bearer of the Pope, his white flag with the red Borgia bull embroidered upon it flying free in the wind. But as he watched the flag was dropped, and a thousand horses rode upon it, leaving it torn and tattered in the muddy earth. When he lifted his head and looked around, there was nothing in its wake. And he understood at once: the Borgia bull was slain.
He stood then, shaken by his vision, and leaned against his desk. When his legs felt steady, he again picked up his quill. He penned more messages. And as the red wax sealed them, over each he said a prayer. One was sent to the king of Naples, another to Fortunato Orsini, who was now the patriarch of the Orsini family since the death of Cardinal Antonio. One was sent to Cardinal Coroneto in Rome, another to Cardinal Malavoglia in Venice, still another to Caterina Sforza in Florence, and the last to Queen Isabella in Spain.
Now he must begin to end it . . .
As he had for the last several weeks, Jofre walked down the long spiral staircase in the cellar of the Castel Sant’ Angelo, to the dungeons. There he moved past the sleeping guards, who noticed him less each day, and made his way into the small squalid dungeon in the corner.
There on a simple cot covered with straw, her dark hair wild and gnarled with knots, Sancia sat silent as a statue. Tears filled his eyes as he watched her, but she did not seem to see him.
The guard unlocked the gate, and Jofre walked inside. When he sat down next to her and reached for her hand, she did not pull away, but her hand was limp and cold.
“Sancia, Sancia,” he pleaded. “Please don’t do this. Please don’t let yourself leave me without a fight. I have sent a message to your uncle, and I am certain he will come to claim you shortly. But I fear to leave myself, for fear some harm will come to you.”
Sancia began to hum softly, but said nothing.
Jofre knew what he must do. But how?
Since the day his father had thrown Sancia in the dungeon Jofre had been guarded constantly, his every movement watched. Except when he walked down the stairs at the Castel Sant’ Angelo, he had spent not one moment alone.
Cesare had just returned, and had reassured his brother that after a small period of time he could see to it that the Pope would set Sancia free.
Now Jofre looked over at his wife, and tears filled his eyes. She would free herself forever if he did not hurry. And he would not be able to bear it.
It was then that a guard came toward him, and called him by name. But Jofre did not recognize him, though his voice was reminiscent of someone he had heard before. He had clear blue eyes and a cap of dark hair, and though his features were heavy, they were definite enough to give him the appearance of strength.
“Do I know you?” Jofre asked.
The young man nodded, but only when he held out his hand in greeting, did Jofre remember.
“Vanni,” he said, embracing him. “Vanni, how did you appear without being caught?”
The guard smiled. “It is an effective disguise, don’t you agree? Now, come, we must speak for a time—before we have no time at all.”
A few days later, as the orange sun set over the dusky countryside, two men stood in front of a large stable. Dressed in cardinal’s robes, the taller one was giving instructions to four mounted riders. They were masked and wore black, hooded cloaks.
“Do exactly as I direct,” the more imposing cardinal said. “There must be no trace. No trace. It must be finished . . . finally.”
The four masked riders swept over the sand dunes to the farm of the old woman called Noni. She shuffled slowly forward to meet them, her wicker basket on her arm.
One rider leaned far down from his saddle to speak to her, quietly, as if he were whispering an important secret. She nodded, looked from side to side, then shuffled back to her garden. In a moment she returned, carrying a handful of dark berries. She walked into her cottage, slid the berries into a small leather bag, and handed them to the rider, who was now waiting inside.
“Grazie,” he said politely. Then he drew his sword, and with one swift stroke split her skull in two.
Within minutes Noni’s cottage was in flames, her body inside.
The riders mounted again and rode off over the hills.
The morning of the banquet in celebration of Cesare’s victories and Alexander’s eleventh anniversary on the papal throne, Alexander awoke with a feeling of uneasiness. He had tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep. And so as he sat on the side of his bed to steady himself before standing, he reached up as he always did, to rub his amulet and say his prayers. At first, when he felt his neck and it was bare, he didn’t understand. Then he laughed to himself. It must have turned itself around. It could not be lost, for it had been soldered on the chain those many years before, and not once since then had it fallen from his neck. Yet on this morning it was nowhere to be found, and Alexander was concerned. He shouted for his servants, all of them. He called for Duarte, for Cesare, and for Jofre. But though his chambers were diligently searched, the amulet had disappeared.
“I will not leave my chambers,” he told them, his arms folded before him.
But they reassured him that they would search the grounds, and the cathedral, and even the woods, never stopping until it was found.
When the amulet still had not been recovered by evening, and Cardinal Coroneto sent word that everyone was waiting to celebrate, the Pope agreed to go. “But if it is not brought back to me by morning, all church business will cease,” Alexander warned.
At the luxurious country castle of Cardinal Coroneto, the tables had been moved into the fabulous garden beside the lake, with fountains spraying crystal-clear water onto gaily colored floating rose petals. The rain had stopped, and the food was delicious. There were large platters of tiny Genoan shrimp in an herb lemon dressing, venison in a sauce of juniper berries, and a magnificent pancake of fruit and honey. The splendid entertainment included a Neapolitan folksinger and a group of dancers from Sicily.
The wine was plentiful, and it was poured by the servants into large shining silver goblets. Coroneto, the immensely fat Roman cardinal, raised his cup to toast the Borgia, as did the thirty rich and influential Romans in attendance.
Alexander had for the time put aside his concerns and was in a splendid mood, jovial and joking with his sons. Cesare sat on one side of him, Jofre on the other, and during the meal the Pope put one arm around each of his sons and held them in a warm embrace. It was then that Jofre reached over to say something to Cesare, and by some strange accident or design dislodged Cesare’s cup from his hand, spilling the wine, bright as blood, all over Cesare’s gold silk shirt.
A manservant came to wipe the spill, but Cesare shoved him away impatiently.
As the evening wore on, however, Alexander began to feel extremely tired and very hot. Soon he asked to be excused. Cesare felt odd as well, but was more concerned about hi
s father, who looked ghostly pale and had begun to sweat.
Alexander was helped back to the Vatican to his apartments. By now he was burning with fever, and was barely able to speak.
His physician, Michele Maruzza, was summoned at once.
He shook his head after he had examined the Pope. Then, turning to Cesare, he said, “I suspect malaria.” Looking more closely, he added, “Cesare, you yourself do not look well. Take to your bed, and I will return in the morning to see both of you.”
The following morning, it was plain that father and son were seriously ill. Both were burning with fever.
Dr. Maruzza, not certain whether he was dealing with malaria or poison, prescribed immediate bleeding with leeches he had brought along. From an apothecary jar which Maruzza held, Cesare could see the dark thin leeches crawling around the bottom of the jar, like long brown threads come alive.
His thick black brows knit together in concentration, Dr. Maruzza gently reached inside the jar with small metal tongs and carefully pulled one of the leeches out. The doctor held the leech out toward Cesare on a small tin plate, and with great pride explained: “These are the finest leeches in all of Rome. They were purchased at great cost from the Monastery of Saint Mark, where they are nurtured and grown with care.”
Cesare winced as he watched the doctor place one of the leeches on his father’s neck, then another. The first leech fast grew dark with blood, its thready body now growing shorter and stubbier as it filled. By the time the fourth leech was placed the first was filled to bursting; round and purple as a berry, it dropped off and fell onto the clean silk sheets.
Cesare grew sicker as Dr. Maruzza, fascinated by both his leeches and his own skill, continued. “We must give them time to feed. They will suck the bad blood from your father’s body, and help him to recover.”
When Dr. Maruzza felt sufficient blood had been let, he removed the leeches, declaring, “I believe His Holiness is already better.”
Indeed Alexander’s fever seemed lower, but now he was cold, clammy, and deathly pale.
Maruzza then turned to Cesare. “And now for you, my son,” he said, holding forth more leeches. But Cesare found the process disgusting, and so he refused. But what did he know of modern medicine? Besides, he felt so sick he was beyond caring.
By evening, despite the doctor’s optimism, it was plain that Alexander was becoming sicker; some feared he must be nearing death.
Upstairs, in his own apartments, Cesare was informed by Duarte that his mother, Vanozza, had visited the Pope and was seen leaving his room weeping. She had stopped by to see Cesare, but did not want to wake him.
Now Cesare insisted that he be brought to his father’s bedside. Unable to walk, he was carried on a litter down to the musty sickroom, where he slumped weakly into a chair beside Alexander’s bed. He reached out and took his father’s hand, kissing it.
Pope Alexander, lying on his back, his belly fermenting with toxins, his lungs filled with thick fluid, found it difficult to breathe. He fell in and out of a dreamlike sleep, his mind often cloudy, but occasionally clear as a bell.
He looked up to see his son Cesare sitting beside his bed, his face drawn and pale, his auburn hair dull and lifeless. He was touched by the concern he saw on Cesare’s face.
He thought about his children. Had he taught his sons well enough? Or had he corrupted and disarmed them by exercising too much power, both as their father and as the Holy Father?
No sooner had he asked the question than the sins he had visited upon his children seemed to pass before his eyes, in separate images of such clarity, dimension, and emotion as he had never seen before. And suddenly he understood. All his questions had been answered.
Now Alexander looked up at Cesare. “My son, I have wronged you and I beg your forgiveness.”
Cesare watched his father with a mixture of compassion and wariness. “What is it, Papa?” he said, with such tenderness that he almost brought the Pope to tears.
“I spoke of power as evil,” Alexander said, struggling to breathe. “But I fear I never explained it fully. I warned you of it, rather than encouraging you to examine it more closely. I never explained that the only good reason to exercise power is in the service of love.” His breath made a hissing sound.
“How does that follow, Papa?” Cesare asked.
Suddenly Alexander was light-headed. He felt young again—a cardinal sitting in his quarters, discoursing with his two sons and daughter while the baby played. He felt his breath come easier. “If you love nothing, then power is an aberration, and more important still a threat. For power is dangerous, and can turn at any moment.”
He slipped back into a dream, it seemed, and now imagined his son as papal general, imagined the battles fought and won, saw the bloody woundings, the brutal killings, and the devastation of the people he had conquered.
He heard Cesare call to him. He heard his son ask, as though from long ago and far away, “Is power not a virtue? Does it not help save the souls of many?”
“My son,” Alexander mumbled. “Power for itself proves nothing. It is an empty exercise of one man’s will over another’s. Not something of virtue.”
Cesare reached for his father’s hand and held it tight. “Father, speak later, for it seems to draw strength from you.”
Alexander smiled, and in his mind it was a brilliant smile, but Cesare saw only a grimace. Sucking in as much air as his sick lungs could bear, he spoke again. “Without love, power places man closer to the animals than to the angels.” The Pope’s skin was turning gray, and he was becoming paler by the moment, but when Dr. Maruzza was called again Alexander waved him away. “Your work here is finished,” he told the doctor. “Know your place.” Then he turned to his son again, struggling to keep his eyes open, for they seemed very heavy. “Cesare, my son, have you ever loved anyone in greater measure than yourself?” he asked.
“Yes, Papa,” Cesare said. “I have.”
Alexander asked, “And who would that be?”
“My sister,” Cesare admitted, his head lowered, his eyes shiny with tears. It seemed to him a confession.
“Lucrezia,” Alexander said softly, and again he smiled, for in his ears it sounded like a song. “Yes,” he said, “that was my sin. Your curse. And her virtue.”
Cesare said, “I will tell her you love her, for her grief at not being with you at this time will be immeasurable.”
His face naked of pretense, Alexander continued. “Tell her she has always been the most precious flower in my life. And a life without flowers is no life at all. For beauty is more necessary than we can imagine.”
Cesare looked at his father, and for the first time saw him as the man he was: uncertain and flawed. They had never before spoken freely, and now there was so much he wished to know about this man who was his father. “Papa, have you ever loved anyone more than yourself?”
With great effort, Alexander forced himself to speak again. “Yes, my son, oh yes . . . ” and he said it with such longing.
“And who would that be?” Cesare asked, as his father had.
Alexander said, “My children. All my children. Yet I fear that too was a fault. In one who was blessed to be the Holy Father, it was excessive. I should have loved God more.”
“Papa,” Cesare said, reassurance in his voice, “when you raised the golden chalice on the altar, when you raised your eyes to heaven, you filled the hearts of the devoted, for your own eyes were filled with love of the divine.”
Alexander’s whole body began to tremble and he began to cough and choke. His voice filled with irony. “When I held up the chalice of red wine, when I blessed the bread and drank the wine—that symbol of the body and blood of the Christ—in my own mind, I imagined the body and blood of my children. I, like God, had created them. And, like him, I sacrificed them. Hubris, to be sure. It was never so clear to me as it is in this moment.” He chuckled at the irony, but he began to cough again.
Cesare tried to comfort his father, b
ut he himself was feeling weak and faint. “Father, if you have need for forgiveness, I can give that now. And if you have need of my love, you must know that you have always had it . . . ”
For a moment the Pope had a thought, and seemed to rally. “Where is your brother, Jofre?” he asked, a small frown on his brow.
Duarte went to find him.
When Jofre arrived, he stood behind his brother, away from his father. His eyes were cold and hard, with no hint of grief.
“Come close, my son,” Alexander said. “Take my hand for just a moment.”
Someone helped moved Cesare away, and reluctantly Jofre took his father’s hand. “Bend closer, my son. Come near,” he said. “There are some things I must say . . . ”
Jofre hesitated but then bent near. “I have wronged you, my son, and I do not doubt you are my son. But until this night, my eyes were fixed on foolishness.”
Jofre looked through the clouds that covered the eyes of his father and said, “I cannot forgive you, Father. For because of you, I cannot forgive myself.”
Alexander looked at his youngest son. “This comes late, I know, but before I die it is important that you hear it from me. You should have been the cardinal, for it was you who was the best of us.”
Jofre’s head shook almost imperceptibly. “Father, you do not even know me.”
At that Alexander smiled slyly, for when things were so clear there could be no mistake. “Without Judas, Jesus himself would have stayed a carpenter, lived a life of preaching that few would have listened to, and died an old man,” he said, chuckling. For suddenly, life seemed so absurd.
But Jofre rushed from the room.
Cesare took his place again at his father’s bedside. And held his father’s hand until he felt it grow icy cold.
Alexander, then comatose, did not hear the soft knock on the door. He did not see Julia Farnese, in her black hooded cloak and veil, enter the room. Removing these things, she turned to Cesare.
“I could not bear to have the Holy Father go without seeing him one last time,” she explained as she bent to kiss Alexander on his forehead.