He then asked the elderly cardinal for permission to travel to Naples, now under Spanish control. Believing that Cesare had complied in substance with the Pope’s orders, and that he could cause no trouble as long as he stayed out of the Romagna, the cardinal accompanied Cesare to the port at Ostia and put him on a galleon bound for Naples.
In Naples, Cesare had one more card to play: Gonsalvo de Córdoba.
The Spanish were now the sole masters of Naples, allowing them to wield greater influence than ever before throughout Italy. Cesare immediately sought help from Ferdinand and Isabella, for he believed them to be Borgia allies. With their support, he told de Córdoba, he and his loyal men could hold out in his fortresses indefinitely, raise additional troops, and force Julius to make and keep favorable terms.
De Córdoba agreed to present his case to the Spanish monarchs. In what was now Spanish territory, Cesare finally felt safe from the reach of Pope Julius. While he waited for a reply from Ferdinand and Isabella, Cesare sent messages to his remaining commanders urging them not to surrender their fortresses. He also began to assemble mercenaries who could fight side by side with the Spanish under de Córdoba.
For three weeks Cesare waited, and still there was no reply from the Catholic majesties in Spain. Cesare grew restless, filled with apprehension. He could sit still no longer; he must do something!
And so Cesare rode through the coastal hills near Naples, to the Spanish military encampment. There he was escorted to the commander’s quarters and shown inside.
Gonsalvo de Córdoba rose from a map-strewn desk to embrace him with a smile. “You look worried, amigo.”
“Si, Gonsalvo, claro,” Cesare said. “I am fighting to hold my fortresses and to raise additional men. But I need your king’s support, and then I need you and your men.”
“No answer yet, Cesare,” de Córdoba said. “But there is a galleon arriving from Valencia at noon tomorrow. If we are lucky, the reply should be on it.”
“You say ‘no answer.’ There is doubt in your mind they will help me?” Cesare asked, puzzled.
“This is not a simple matter, Cesare. You know that very well,” de Córdoba told him. “My monarchs have many things to consider. The Pope is your sworn enemy, and he is a hard and vindictive man.”
“Of that there is no question,” Cesare said. “But Gonsalvo, Ferdinand and Isabella are lifelong friends. It was my father who interceded and made their marriage possible. He was godfather to their first child. And you know I have always supported them . . . ”
De Córdoba placed his hand on Cesare’s arm. “Be calm, be calm, Cesare,” he said. “I know all this. My Catholic majesties know it too. And they do consider you a friend, a loyal one. Tomorrow afternoon we should have their reply, and God willing it will instruct me to throw the full weight of my forces behind your efforts.”
Cesare was somewhat comforted by de Córdoba’s reassurances. “I’m sure that will be the message, Gonsalvo; and then we must act quickly.”
“Absolutely,” de Córdoba said. “And without attracting attention before we are ready. There are spies everywhere—even among the workers here in our camp. We must find a meeting place less public. Do you know the old lighthouse on the beach north of here?”
“No,” Cesare said, “but I’ll find it.”
“Good,” the captain said. “I’ll meet you there at sundown tomorrow. It is then we will plan our strategy.”
The following evening, just as the golden sun was sinking below the horizon, Cesare walked along the beach north of the port, alongside water pale as bones, until he saw the old stone lighthouse.
As he got closer, he saw de Córdoba step out from the lighthouse entrance.
In his eagerness, Cesare shouted, “Gonsalvo, what is the news?”
The Spanish commander put his finger to his lips, and spoke in hushed tones. “Quiet, Cesare,” he said. “Come inside. We cannot be too careful.”
He followed Cesare through the lighthouse door. As Cesare stepped into the darkness inside, he was seized at once by four men. He was quickly disarmed, and just as quickly his hands and feet were bound tight with heavy rope. Then they ripped off his mask.
“What treachery is this, Gonsalvo?” Cesare asked.
De Córdoba lit a candle, and Cesare could see that he was surrounded by a dozen heavily armed Spanish troopers.
“No treachery, Cesare,” he said. “I am just obeying the orders of my king and queen. They do recognize you as an old friend, but they also remember your alliance with France, and recognize that the power of the Borgia is ended. It now lies with Pope Julius. And the Holy Father does not consider you a friend.”
“Dios mío!” Cesare said. “They forget that Spanish blood flows in my veins!”
“On the contrary, Cesare,” de Córdoba said. “They still consider you their subject. And for that reason my orders are to return you to Spain. They will give you sanctuary—in a Valencian prison. I’m sorry, my friend, but you know that my Catholic majesties are extremely devout. They are convinced that both God and the Holy Father will be pleased with their decision.” De Córdoba began to move away, but then he turned back to Cesare. “You must also know that your brother Juan’s widow, Maria Enriquez, has formally accused you of his murder. And she is a cousin of the king.”
Cesare felt so betrayed, he could say nothing.
De Córdoba gave a curt order, and without ceremony Cesare was carried outside and thrown over the back of a mule, struggling ferociously. Then, accompanied by de Córdoba and his troopers, he was transported across the dark beach and taken up into the foothills to the Spanish encampment.
At dawn the next morning, still bound hand and foot, Cesare was gagged, wrapped in a shroud, and placed in a wooden coffin. The coffin was closed and driven by wagon to the port, where it was loaded aboard a Spanish galleon bound for Valencia.
Cesare could not breathe; there was too little room in the small box even to struggle. He tried with all his might to resist his own panic, for he was certain that if he gave in, it could make a madman of him.
De Córdoba had chosen this method of transport, for he had no intention of allowing any Neapolitans still loyal to Cesare to learn that he had been arrested. He felt he had more than sufficient men to repel any rescue attempt. But, as he put it to his lieutenant, “Why take a chance? This way any waterfront spy will see only the coffin of a poor dead Spaniard being carried home for burial.”
When the galleon was an hour out at sea, the captain finally gave the order to free Cesare from the coffin and remove his shroud and gag.
Pale and shaking, still bound, he was thrown into a storage locker near the stern of the ship.
The locker was cramped, but filthy as it was, at least it had a vent in its door, better than the stifling coffin in which Cesare had spent his last hours.
Once each day during his journey across the sea, Cesare was fed wormy biscuits and water by one of the crew. Kind and obviously experienced in sea voyaging, the man pounded each biscuit on the deck to knock the worms loose before breaking off pieces to push into Cesare’s mouth.
“Sorry about the bonds,” he told Cesare. “But the captain ordered it. You stay trussed up until we arrive in Valencia.”
After a miserable voyage marked by rough seas, disgusting food, and cramped, foul-smelling quarters, the galleon finally docked at Villanueva del Grao. Ironically this was the same Valencian port from which Cesare’s great-uncle Alonso Borgia—later Pope Calixtus—had left Spain for Italy more than sixty years before.
The bustling port was filled with the soldiers of Ferdinand and Isabella, and so there was no further need to disguise or conceal the prisoner.
Once again, Cesare was thrown over the back of a mule and carried down a cobblestone street alongside the harbor to a tall castle which was now a prison. This time he did not fight.
Cesare was pushed into a tiny cell near the top of the castle and there, with four armed guards present, his bonds were finally remov
ed.
Cesare stood, rubbing his sore wrists. He looked around the cell, taking in the stained mattress on the floor, the rusted food bowl, and the foul-smelling slop bucket. Would this be his home for the rest of his life? If so, that would in great likelihood not be long, for his devout friends Ferdinand and Isabella, anxious to please both the new Pope and Juan’s widow, would almost certainly decide to torture and kill him.
Days passed, then weeks. And Cesare sat on the floor of his cell trying to keep his mind alert by counting things—roaches on the wall, flyspecks on the ceiling, the number of times each day the tiny slot in his door would open. Once a week, he was allowed an hour of fresh air in the small prison courtyard. On Sundays, he was brought a basin of rancid water with which to cleanse himself.
Was this better than death? he wondered. He could not be certain, but he knew he would find out before too long.
Still, the weeks turned into months and his situation remained the same. There were times he was certain he had gone mad, when he forgot where he was, when he imagined himself walking along the shores of Silverlake, or arguing good-naturedly with his father. He tried not to think of Lucrezia, and yet there were times she seemed to be standing in the same cell, stroking his hair, kissing his lips, talking to him in sweet comforting words.
He had the time now to think about and understand his father, to see what he had tried to do, not fault him for his errors. Was his father as great as he appeared to Cesare? Though he knew it had been a brilliant strategy to secure the bond between himself and Lucrezia, it was also the one thing he felt unforgivable, for it had cost them both too much. Yet would he rather have lived his life without loving her in this way? He could not imagine it, though it had kept him from truly loving any other. And poor Alfonso—how much of his death was due to his own jealousy? He cried that night, tears for himself as well as for his sister’s husband. And that naturally led him to the memories of his dear wife, Lottie. She loved him so . . .
That night he was determined to rid himself of his passion for Lucrezia and to live an honorable life with Lottie and his daughter, Louise. If he ever escaped his present fate—if he was granted grace by the Heavenly Father.
Cesare remembered then what his father had said years ago, when Cesare told him he didn’t believe in God, the Virgin Mary, or the saints. He could hear his father’s voice. “Many sinners say they don’t believe in God, because they fear punishment after death. So they try to renounce truth.” The Pope had taken Cesare’s hands in his own and continued fervently. “Listen, my son, men lose their faith. The cruelties of this world are too much for them, and so they question an everlasting and loving God; they question his infinite mercy. They question the Holy Mother Church. But a man must keep faith alive with action. Even the saints themselves were men of action. I think nothing of those holy men who scourge themselves and ponder the mysterious ways of mankind while hidden away in their monasteries. They do nothing for the living church; they will not help it endure in this temporal world. It is men like you and myself who must do our own particular duty. Even though,” and here Alexander raised a commanding papal finger, “our souls may rest for a time in purgatory. When I say my prayers, when I confess my sins, that is my consolation for some of the terrible things I must do. It does not matter what our humanists say, those believers in the Greek philosophies who think that mankind is all that exists. There is an Almighty God and he is merciful and he is understanding. That is our faith. And you must believe. Live with your sins, confess them or not, but never lose faith.”
At the time the Pope’s speech had meant nothing to Cesare. Now, though he struggled with faith, he had confessed to whatever God could hear. But back then the only words he heard were these: “Remember, my son, you are my brightest hope for the future of the Borgia.”
One night, after midnight, Cesare saw his cell door swing quietly open. Expecting a guard on some late mission, he saw instead Duarte Brandao carrying a coil of rope.
“Duarte, what in heaven’s name are you doing here?” Cesare asked, his heart beating wildly.
“Rescuing you, my friend,” Duarte answered. “But hurry. We must leave at once.”
“What about the guards?” Cesare asked.
“They have been handsomely bribed—a skill I mastered long ago,” Duarte said as he uncoiled the rope.
“We’re going to climb down that?” Cesare asked, frowning. “It looks too short.”
“It is,” Duarte said, smiling. “I have it here only for show, to protect the guards. Their commander will believe that is how you escaped.” Duarte tied the rope to an iron bracket in the wall and threw it out the window, then turned to Cesare. “We will take a much easier route.”
Cesare followed Duarte down the circular staircase of the castle, and out a small door in the rear of the building. No guard was in sight. Duarte ran to the spot where the rope he had thrown was dangling from the window, far short of the ground. He reached in the pocket of his cloak and pulled out what looked like a terra-cotta flask.
He said, “Chicken blood. I’ll spread some on the ground below the rope, then in a trail leading south. They’ll think you were hurt jumping from the rope and limped off in that direction. But in truth you are going north.”
Cesare and Duarte made their way across a field and climbed to a hilltop where two horses were waiting, held by a small boy.
“Where are we going, Duarte?” Cesare asked. “Very few places are safe for either of us.”
“You are correct, Cesare—very few,” Duarte said. “But there are some still. You will ride to the castle of your brother-in-law, the king of Navarre. He’s expecting you. You’ll be welcome there and safe.”
“And you, Duarte?” Cesare asked. “Where will you go? Italy would be deadly. Spain, after tonight, will be fatal as well. You never trusted the French. Nor they you, for that matter. So where?”
“I have a small boat waiting on the beach not too far from here,” Duarte said. “I’ll sail it to England.”
“To England, Sir Edward?” Cesare said, with a small smile.
Duarte looked up, surprised. “So you knew? All along?”
“Father suspected for years,” Cesare said. “But won’t you encounter a hostile king—perhaps a deadly one?”
“Possibly. But Henry Tudor is a shrewd, practical man, one who tries to gather able men to advise and assist him. In fact, I have lately heard rumored that he has inquired after my whereabouts, which have been unknown to him. He has given a strong indication that, if I return to serve him, I might find amnesty and perhaps even the restoration of my former status. Which, I must admit, was quite a handsome one. This may, of course, be a trap. But, realistically, what choice do I have?”
“None, I suppose. But, Duarte, can you sail that far alone?”
“Oh, I’ve sailed farther than that, Cesare. And over the years I’ve come to enjoy solitude.”
Duarte paused. “Well, my friend, it’s growing late,” he said. “We must go our separate ways.”
They embraced there on the hilltop, lit by the bright Spanish moon. Then Cesare backed away. “Duarte, I shall never forget you. Godspeed and fair sailing!”
He turned, leapt on his horse, and rode off in the direction of Navarre before Duarte could see the tears streaming down his cheeks.
30
ALERT TO THE danger of being recaptured by Spanish militia combing the countryside, Cesare avoided all towns and rode only at night, sleeping in the woods during the day. Filthy and exhausted, he finally reached Navarre, in the north tip of the Iberian peninsula.
Cesare was expected by his brother-in-law, for Duarte had told the king of his coming. He was quickly passed through the gate and escorted to a spacious room overlooking the river.
By the time Cesare had bathed and dressed in the clothes provided for him, a soldier arrived to lead him to the royal apartments.
There, King Jean of Navarre, a large man with tanned skin and a trim beard, embraced him warmly.
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“My dear brother, how good to see you!” Jean said. “I have heard all about you from Charlotte, of course, and you are welcome here. Oh, we have minor skirmishes with disorderly barons from time to time, but nothing that would threaten your safety or peace of mind. So rest, relax, and enjoy yourself. Stay as long as you like. And, for God’s sake, we must have the royal tailor make you some clothes!”
Cesare was immensely grateful to this man, whom he had never before met, and who was saving his life. He had no intention of leaving that debt unpaid, especially after leaving his dear Lottie in France so long ago.
“I thank you, Your Majesty, for your gracious hospitality,” Cesare said. “But I would like to assist you in these ‘minor skirmishes’ about which you have spoken. For I have experience in war, and would be pleased to put that experience at your service.”
King Jean smiled. “Well, of course you may. I know of your exploits.” He drew his sword and playfully touched it to Cesare’s shoulder. “I make thee commander of the royal army. I should tell you, however, that the previous commander was blown to bits last week.” The king laughed now, showing dazzling white teeth.
For two days Cesare rested, for he was completely exhausted. He slept around the clock, but as soon as he woke, after dressing himself in his new clothing—complete with armor and weapons—he went to inspect the army he was to command. Beginning with the cavalry, he saw that they were experienced professionals, well trained and well led. They would carry themselves well in battle.
Next Cesare inspected the artillery. There were twenty-four guns, clean and in fair shape. The gunners, like the cavalry, seemed to be battle-hardened veterans. They might not be the equal of Vito Vitelli’s unit, but they would serve.
The infantry was another story. Comprised mostly of local peasants reporting periodically for military service, they were willing enough, but ill equipped and apparantly ill trained. When trouble came, he would have to count on the cavalry and artillery to do the job.