The Family

  The next few weeks passed peacefully. Strangely, they were the happiest times Cesare could remember, other than perhaps his time with Charlotte and the days at Silverlake. For once, his life was not in danger. There was no need to scheme against anyone, and no one was scheming against him.

  King Jean was a charming companion, who seemed grateful for Cesare’s company. He was kind, and Cesare had no fear of betrayal. They spent virtually every day together, riding and hunting, and he felt about Jean as he would have liked to about his brothers. Evenings, after supper, they sat by the fire discussing books they had read, the methods of good government, and the responsibilities of leadership. They even had a wrestling match. But though Cesare won, it wasn’t a true victory, for he was certain that the muscular, chivalrous king had surrendered out of fondness for him.

  Cesare felt secure for the first time in years. And so he told the king, “I believe it is finally time to send for my wife and child. For since we have parted I have written Lottie, and sent gifts for her and the child; but more than once I have planned to send for them, only to face some new crisis, some new peril that would put them at too great a risk.”

  Jean, Charlotte’s brother and now Cesare’s as well, agreed with great enthusiasm. They toasted the time when she would arrive.

  At midnight, in his quarters, Cesare picked up a quill and wrote to his wife at the Château de la Motte Feuilly in the Dauphine.

  My dearest Lottie,

  At last the news I’ve wanted to send you for so long. I believe that it is time for you to join me here in Navarre—with la petite Louise. Of course Jean has been a staunch friend, and the situation here permits all of us to be together—finally. I know the trip will be long and arduous, but once you are here we will never be parted again.

  Yours in Love,

  C.

  Cesare sent the letter by royal courier the following day. He knew it would be months before Charlotte and the child could join him, but his heart filled with joy at the thought.

  A few days later, as Cesare joined the king at supper, Jean’s mood was sullen and he was quiet with rage.

  “What is it that troubles you, brother?” Cesare asked.

  The King was so angry he could barely speak, but when he began he could hardly stop. “Count Louis de Beaumonte has been causing me trouble for months. His men steal the cattle and grain from our villages, which is a disaster for the people. His bishop pretends to be on a mission for the church but instead contacts my officers, offering them lands and money to betray me. Now he has gone further still. And now it is too far. Today his soldiers burned a village to the ground, slaughtered every man, and of course raped every woman. This was not some random escapade by an unknown drunk, Cesare. Beaumonte has designs on a significant portion of my lands. And his tactic is terror. He will terrorize the villagers until they desert me and support him, in order to save their own lives and homes.”

  Again treachery, like a dragon from the depths, had reared its head. Cesare recognized it, and was afraid for Jean.

  The king slammed his fist on the table, spilling his wine. “I will stop him! At once! As ruler of Navarre, I owe my subjects protection. They should not have to live in fear. Tomorrow I will lead a raid on his castle at Viana. There, I will drive him out or kill him.”

  Cesare said, “You are a true king. You should order such a raid, Jean. But you must not lead it yourself. For it is too dangerous a battle, and you are much too important to your people to risk your person. I am truly grateful for all you have done for me, when I had no chance at life except for you. I beg that you allow me to lead the attack. For I have led many, and we will succeed.”

  The king finally agreed, swayed by Cesare’s logic. That night the two men spent hours studying a map of Viana’s fortifications, and planning strategies for the following day.

  It was before dawn when Cesare awoke. The king’s army had arrived, and was waiting. His mount, a spirited bay stallion, was impatiently stomping his foot at the gate. The army wound its way out of the castle, and with Cesare leading they crossed fields, climbed hills and streams, and finally arrived before the walls of Louis de Beaumont’s castle.

  Cesare studied the fortress. The walls were high and well designed. But Cesare had seen higher, better walls. Compared to Forli and Faenza, this should be no difficult task.

  Cesare deployed his men as he had so many times before, then donned light armor and prepared himself to fight once again. He himself would lead the charge of the cavalry; given the infantry’s condition, Cesare knew that charge would be critical—it could carry the day.

  Recalling the lessons he had learned from Vito Vitelli, Cesare began by spreading his cannons around the perimeter of the walls and protecting them with units of cavalry and infantry. Once that was accomplished, he ordered them to fire initially at the ramparts. This behavior would kill or disable many of the defenders and reduce the ultimate risk to Cesare’s own forces. The artillery officers passed on his orders, and the bombardment began.

  It went well. Time after time, as the guns fired, portions of the upper walls crumbled and fell on all sides of the castle. As the cannons continued their fire, Cesare could hear the screams of the defenders who had been mutilated or blown off the ramparts by the ceaseless attack.

  But now, after more than an hour, it was time to change his tactics. Cesare instructed that all cannons be wheeled to one side of the castle. Then he ordered their fire directed to a single section of the wall no more than fifty feet wide. There, thought Cesare, is where my cavalry charge will strike.

  This castle was not as well built as those Cesare had attacked in Italy. The walls began to sway with each barrage, and Cesare knew the end was near.

  It was then he gave the command for the cavalry to prepare to charge. The cavalry officers passed on his command, and each of the mounted men placed a deadly-looking lance under his arm in the attack position. Each was wearing a sword as well, and even if dismounted would be a formidable foe.

  Cesare himself mounted his bay charger, placing his own lance at the ready. He checked his sword and the spike-studded mace that hung from his saddle, ready for use if he were dismounted and lost his sword.

  Cesare’s fighting spirit was aroused. But it was more than that. This was not just another battle for conquest. This king had been kind to him, had saved his life, had become a friend.

  Moreover, Cesare knew all too well what a vicious baron like Beaumonte could do if left unchecked. He owed it to the king to put an end to Louis de Beaumonte.

  Now Cesare heard the familiar cry: “A breach, a breach!” A huge, jagged hole had been opened in the wall, through which his cavalrymen could pass unimpeded and take the castle.

  His heart beating mightily, Cesare turned and shouted at his troops to charge the wall. Pulling down the visor of his helmet, he spurred his charger straight ahead directly at the breach.

  But as he raced toward the wall, he knew suddenly that something was terribly wrong. There was no sound of hooves beside him.

  Without stopping, he turned in the saddle.

  Behind him, where he had left them, the entire cavalry troop was standing motionless. With horror, he realized that not a man had followed him.

  Any moment the castle reserve would rush to the breach, and without a cavalry charge, they would be difficult to dislodge.

  Cesare slowed his charger. He turned again toward his cavalry unit, raised his visor, and bellowed, “Charge, you cowards!”

  But once again the entire cavalry unit stood unmoving.

  Now Cesare understood. These dastardly men had been bought and paid for. They were betraying their king . . . his friend, his savior, Jean of Navarre.

  Well, he would not!

  Cesare hesitated no more. He lowered his visor, secured his lance, and raced into the breach . . . alone.

  There was dust and confusion everywhere. Immediately, hordes of reservists with pikes, spears, and swords rushed toward him. He rode into the pack, and
they scattered. But he had slain only two with his lance. Now the enemy regrouped and swarmed around him again.

  Instinctively Cesare fought, his sword in one hand, his mace in the other. One enemy after another fell, cut down by his sword or smashed to the ground by his mace.

  Then, suddenly, Cesare’s horse went down, and he was on the ground, rolling to one side to avoid the sharp thrusts of the enemy pikes. He leapt to his feet, his mace gone now, but still he slashed out with his sword in all directions.

  Yet there were too many of them—just too many. And suddenly they were all around him, stabbing and hacking at him. He felt the sharp pain of a spear thrust into his armpit. He felt weak; he was losing blood now. Then he heard a voice, a comforting sound: “In arms and by arms . . . ” He thought of Lucrezia. Then he slipped to the ground, and all thought ceased.

  Cesare Borgia was dead.

  EPILOGUE

  CESARE BORGIA, WHO had been a cardinal, a duke, and a gonfaloniere, was honored in an elaborate ceremony in Rome conducted by his brother, Cardinal Jofre Borgia, and Pope Julius himself. Afterward, his ashes were placed beneath a huge monument in the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore. It was said that Pope Julius wanted Cesare where he could keep an eye on him even after death.

  But Lucrezia Borgia had arranged for her brother’s ashes to be stolen by Michelotto and placed in a golden urn. Michelotto, who had by some miracle stayed alive, then rode through the night to bring them to her in Ferrara.

  The following day, Lucrezia set off with a retinue of three hundred nobles and men at arms, and led the funeral cortege on the long journey to Silverlake.

  Tents were pitched along the shore. There were the usual penitents from the Tolfa mines only ten miles away and mistresses of some of the high-ranking clergymen shedding their repentant tears into the waters. Lucrezia’s men cleared them away.

  From the hilly ground above, she could see the spires of Rome. And it brought back memories of when she had been a carnal sinner, when she had suffered pangs of fear for her brother and her father because of what she knew of them. Like many other sinners, she had come to this lake to be cleansed of her sinful desires, truly believing that the magical waters would wash away her temptations, for the lake had a reputation for providing solace, for reforming evildoers.

  But her father, the Pope, with his sly yet good-humored smile, reminded her that there was nothing as treacherous as the evildoer seeking redemption. After all, such a person was a proven example of weakness of character, prone to shifting winds.

  Now, Lucrezia sat by the lake in her golden tent and felt those silvery waters bring her a peace she had never really known before. Her father and her brother were dead. And her destiny was settled. She would give birth to more children; she would help rule Ferrara; she would be just, and above all merciful, for the remainder of her life.

  She would never rival her father and brother in worldly achievement, but that was of no consequence, for she would be what they never were. Sadly, she acknowledged in her heart that they were never truly merciful. She remembered how Cesare had punished the Roman satirist Filofila, who had composed the scurrilous verses about the Borgia clan. What did all that matter now? What was the harm in words? Would anyone ever truly believe them?

  And so she had brought Cesare’s ashes to Silverlake, as if his mortal remains could be tempted to sin even yet. Or as some sort of pilgrimage to atone for her own sins of the flesh, the only sins of which she was guilty and of which she would be guilty no more. Finally, she would be redeemed.

  And that brought her back with fondness to the memory of her father. A cardinal of the Holy Church when she was born, a loving and dutiful father when he was Pope and the Vicar of Christ. Did his soul roast in hell forevermore for his sins? If she could feel mercy, how could not an all-powerful God? She remembered then what her father had said when she wept over Cesare’s murder of her husband.

  “God will forgive them both,” he had told her. “Otherwise there is no reason for His being. And one day, when our worldly tragedy is done, we will all be together again.”

  Near nightfall, the lake had taken on a silvery glow. Lucrezia walked slowly out onto the small dock from which they had swum and dived as children. And in her mind, she could hear her brother Cesare’s voice as it sounded when she was a child. “No, Crezia, it’s too shallow.” “Don’t worry, Crezia, I’ll save you.” And later, when they were older, with more of their lives lived and some dreams destroyed, his voice again, promising, “If that is what you want, Crezia, I’ll try to help.” Then, when she had seen him for the very last time, his plea: “If I’m ever killed, Crezia, you must live for me.” And she had promised she would.

  As she walked to the end of the dock the night began to envelop her in its shimmering darkness, and she saw the pale moon rise just over the cedars. It was then Lucrezia removed the cover from the urn, and slowly scattered Cesare’s ashes into Silverlake.

  Later, as she reached the shore again, several of the penitents walking back through the hills after their day of prayer and penance noticed her.

  One beautiful young woman turned to the young man she was with and pointed to Lucrezia. “Who is that lovely woman?” she asked him.

  “Lucrezia d’Este, the good and merciful duchess of Ferrara,” he said. “Have you never heard of her?”

  AFTERWORD

  CAROL GINO

  THE BIGGEST SURPRISE for me when I first met Mario Puzo was that he was nothing like his characters. The Mario I came to know was a husband, a father, a lover, a mentor, and a true friend. He was kind and generous, authentic as any human being could be, true and funny and smart. From him came the loyalty, the fairness, the compassion that he wrote about in his books, but not the villainy. That aspect came from his nightmares, not from his dreams. He was a shy, soft-spoken, generous man who held very few judgments about others. We spent twenty years together, playing, brainstorming, and working.

  Mario was fascinated with Renaissance Italy, and especially with the Borgia family. He swore that they were the original crime family, and that their adventures were much more treacherous than any of the stories he told about the Mafia. He believed the Popes were the first Dons—Pope Alexander the greatest Don of all.

  For most of the years we spent together, Mario told Borgia stories. Their escapades both shocked and amused him, and he even rewrote some of the incidents to make them contemporary enough to put in his Mafia books.

  One of Mario’s greatest pleasures was traveling, and we did it often. After we visited the Vatican in 1983, he was so enchanted by the look, feel, and food of Italy, so taken by its history, that he wanted to write a novel about it. It was that many years ago that he began to write the Borgia book, though even then he referred to it as “just another family story.” Although he would write several other novels in the years between, each time he had difficulty writing, each time his creativity felt blocked or he felt discouraged, he went back to the Borgia book for inspiration or refuge.

  “I wish I could write a book with this material and have it make a lot of money,” he told me one day as he was lying on the couch in his study, staring at the ceiling as he always did.

  “Why don’t you?” I asked.

  “I was a struggling writer until I was forty-eight years old, honey,” he said. “I wrote two books the reviewers called classics, and only made five thousand dollars. It was only after I wrote The Godfather that I could feed my family. I was poor for too long to take a chance on something different this late in life.”

  After his heart attack in 1992, I asked him again. “Have you thought about the Borgia book?”

  “I have to write two more Mafia books first, and then I’ll be set,” he said. “Besides, I still enjoy hanging out with those characters. I’m not sure I’m ready to let them go just yet.”

  During the time we spent in Malibu while he was recovering from his heart surgery, whenever he was uncomfortable or wanted a diversion, he read books on the Italian Renai
ssance and scribbled Borgia pages for me to read and us to discuss.

  Mario was a very funny man with a unique way of looking at things.

  “Lucrezia was a good girl,” he said one day while we were working in his study. And I laughed.

  “And the rest of the family?” I asked. “They were the villains?”

  “Cesare was a patriot who desired to be a hero. Alexander was a doting father, a true family man,” he said. “Like most people, they did some bad things, but that didn’t make them bad people.” That day we talked and laughed about them for hours, and later that night he completed the scene of Cesare and the Pope fighting over whether he wanted to be a cardinal.

  During this time he was only willing to leave his house and go out to dinner when Bert Fields was coming into town. Bert is not only a distinguished historian and lawyer, but was also one of Mario’s dearest friends. Each time we met, whether it was on the east coast or the west, the dinner conversation somehow always came back to the Borgias. Bert was as excited and amused about the power and treachery of the Renaissance as Mario. “When are you going to get the Borgia book together?” Bert always asked.

  “I’m working on it,” Mario would say.

  “He’s got a bunch of it done,” I told Bert.

  And Bert seemed pleased.

  As time went on, Mario called Bert frequently to trade stories, asking questions and sharing observations. Each time he finished a conversation with Bert, Mario and I would talk about the Borgias, and he was excited again about writing the stories of the Family.

  I’ll help you finish the Borgia book,” I offered one day in 1995, after we’d spent a particularly interesting day talking about the nature of love, relationships, and betrayal.

  “I don’t collaborate until after I’m dead,” he said, smiling at me.