Blood & Beauty The Borgias

Chapter 24



In the dingy light inside the old basilica of St Peter, Juan Borgia, newly ordained as Gonfaloniere and Captain-General of the Church, kneels alongside the Duke of Urbino to receive the papal staff and banners of war. After mass, free wine and food help gather a crowd to see them on their way. It has taken time for Rome to get back its sense of pride after the humiliation of occupation, and there are those who think a war between families can bring only bloodshed rather than honour. Others relish the chance to settle old scores. In the Piazza del Popolo a group of Orsini followers start heckling as the troops pass and within minutes a fight breaks out inside the crowd. Swords are pulled and the howls of fury and agony penetrate over the drumrolls into the ranks of soldiers: sweet music to accompany men into battle.

The weather is unseasonably warm for late autumn, and for a while the sun shines on everything. Bunched like a cluster of grapes around Lake Bracciano, the fortresses to the south and north-west fall as easily as Cesare has predicted. By Christmas, Alexander is celebrating the birth of the Christ child along with the transferred ownership of nine castles. The Vatican is full of joy. All that remains is Trevignano and Bracciano, its recently fortified turrets and crenellated walkways reflected into the mirror surface of the lake.

In his private chambers Alexander calls for Cesare’s messenger. It is a good choice. Locked in Rome as part of Cesare’s bodyguard, Pedro Calderón has spent a frustrating war. There had been his dash to Spoleto, and a few back-street brawls with French soldiers during the occupation, but the only real offensive had come with the attack on the Swiss Guard, and the odds had been so far on the Borgia side that he had left the square with a sense of a slaughter rather than an honourable fight. What he wants more than anything else is a mission.

‘The Cardinal of Valencia says that you would defend him to the death and that on horseback you can outrun any deer.’

The flattery leaves him a little embarrassed. ‘I do my best, Your Holiness.’ He has never been so close to the heart of power and his eyes are everywhere at once. Around him the walls and the ceiling pulsate with colour, even the floor sings out through its patterned tiles. It is Pedro’s destiny to be deeply affected by beauty. Alexander watches the wonder in his eyes and lets the moment linger. Ambassadors and diplomats have jaded palates when it comes to such things. ‘You find the images around you pleasing, young man?’

‘Oh… Holy Father, I am sorry. I did not mean… I have never…’ He hesitates. ‘It is like standing inside the light of heaven,’ he ends lamely.

‘The light of heaven. Finely said.’ Alexander, who has occasionally wondered if there is perhaps a touch too much gold everywhere, smiles broadly. ‘The Cardinal of Valencia has chosen well in you. But now we must put you in the saddle. Tell me how long will it take you to get to Naples.’

‘If the weather is not against me and I change horses, close to two days.’

‘Good. I need a message taken to a man there.’

‘It is done, Your Holiness.’

‘You have not heard all of it yet.’

Calderón bows his head.

‘You will have a name and place where he can be found. When you locate the man, you will address him by another name. When he nods you will say nothing else, simply hand him the letter. Wait while he reads it. He will then tell you when and where to meet him next. At that meeting he will say the words. “The meat is well spiced.” You will then get on your horse and ride back to Rome, stopping for nothing. When you get here you will report to me immediately. Is all that clear?’

‘Completely.’

‘Should anything happen either on the road or in Naples to prevent you from delivering the letter it is imperative that it be destroyed.’

‘Nothing will prevent me, Your Holiness.’

From a casket on the table, Alexander hands him a folded parchment closed with the Borgia seal. Calderón opens his doublet and shirt, slips the letter next to his skin and refastens his clothes. All this is done calmly, with quiet precision. When it is finished he drops to his knees.

‘One more thing. You have never been in my presence, nor gone to Naples nor met the man that you will meet there.’

Calderón can feel his mouth twitching to smile. ‘On my life, Your Holiness.’ The excitement is leaking out of him. He starts moving backwards towards the door.

‘Ah – maybe not that way. The palace has more eyes than a sack of needles. There is a door in the back of the next room. The passage leads into the next palazzo. From there you can cross into a courtyard and into the street beyond.’

His exhilaration is such that his whole body is tingling as he navigates the gloom of the passage. At the same moment that he opens the door on the other side, he sees a woman entering the room, and turning directly towards him. He recognises her from his dreams. He pulls his cloak around him and bows low.

‘My lady.’

‘Oh, oh my! Oh, you startled me! Wait… it is Pedro Calderón, yes?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘What are you doing here? Have you come from my father… I mean His Holiness?’

He stares at her. ‘No. No.’

‘No. But you have come through the passage? Where have you been?’

‘I – I was… delivering a letter from the Cardinal of Valencia, but I saw no one.’

‘So, my father is not in his chambers?’

‘I have no idea, madam.’ And now his discomfort is clear.

‘Ah. Ah, I see.’ And the smile is involuntary. ‘My, you are elevated in the world, Señor Calderón. So what? Probably I have not seen you either?’

He gives a slight shrug and they stand awkwardly for a moment. Such is the unexpectedness of it all, such the thrill of the moment, that neither he nor she can pull themselves away. ‘How was the Duchy of Pesaro, my lady?’

‘Pesaro? Oh, it was quite fine. Until it was not. You were right, they were most pleased to see me. But I missed Rome.’

He nods. He cannot help staring.

‘Aren’t you going to tell me how Rome missed me?’

‘Oh, oh yes, yes. The city was bereft. I…’ He stops himself, aware of how foolish he sounds. She stands waiting, her lips slightly parted, bright eyes with a touch of mischief in them. There is something in his gaucheness that makes her feel confident, almost carefree. ‘I am not a courtier, my lady. Words come out badly.’ He feels the letter close to his skin. It would be better not to stain it with sweat. ‘But I think any city where you are not, is a place in slumber waiting for your return.’

‘Actually, Señor Calderón, the words come out quite well. Courtiers say flattering things they don’t believe. You should not worry about emulating them. I am grateful to you for guarding my brother through the dark days of the war.’

‘The cardinal guards himself, my lady. I did very little.’

‘That’s not true. I heard you rode ahead of him to Spoleto after his escape.’

‘How did you hear?’ And it is clear he is pleased.

‘Oh – I have forced him to tell me everything. Life in Pesaro was as dull as it was alarming. How exciting to have been part of it.’

‘If I could ever be of any similar help to you…’

‘I hope I am never fleeing for my life. But thank you. You are a true soldier. I – I must go. My father has asked to see me.’

‘Of course. May I escort you through the passage? It is dark there.’

‘You are kind, but it is a darkness I am familiar with. And anyway, we have not seen each other, remember?’

She is still light-hearted from the encounter as she kisses her father welcome.

‘My sweet child. I did not expect you so soon. Sit, sit. Here… Look at you. You glow as brightly as the room. We are fortunate to have such wonder around us, yes? Here. I am the recipient of a gift of sugared fruits from the new Cardinal of Sevilla. You must help me with them. There are those who say a man can be too stout as he grows older.’ He pats his stomach fondly. ‘But it is my intention to be big enough to fit two popes in here,’ he says gaily, for the world is going well for him, bar a few outstanding matters which he is now addressing.

‘So, my dear. I am so busy with this marvellous campaign of your brother’s that I have neglected you rather over these last months. The court is full of life, I hear. Do you enjoy yourself?’

She drops her eyes. Watching her sister-in-law move her brothers in and out of bed has been a dispiriting experience for a young woman deserted by her own husband.

‘Of course, with the duke away you have less opportunity to shine. Have you heard from him recently?’

‘Er… no, not for some time. He is busy with business.’

‘And what business could be more important than a wife? We have summoned him to Rome twice now to join the fight against the Orsini but to no avail. I must say, such behaviour makes me fear that there is something deeply amiss in your marriage.’

‘But – I have been a good wife, Father,’ she says fiercely.

‘Oh, goodness, child. I am not criticising you. These Sforzas are slippery creatures, as we have found out to our cost. No, no, if anyone must take the blame it is myself. You were very young of course, but you will remember that you were already betrothed when Sforza made his offer.’

‘Count Gaspar d’Aversa,’ she says immediately. There have been moments over these last years when she has wondered if that name would have made her happier than the one she carries now.

‘Yes. Excellent fellow. He claimed that the engagement was never formally dissolved. And it is true, thinking about it, that the process was indeed rather precipitous…’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means, if the Church lawyers agree on it, your marriage to Sforza could be declared null and void.’

‘Null and void!’ The words hit hard. Is it really so simple? Should she have asked before? ‘You mean I would no longer be married?’

‘No. Would that upset you dreadfully?’

‘I… er… if it is your wish, I would accept it.’ Her heart is beating so fast she can barely hear her voice.

‘Excellent. Cesare said you would have no complaints. This Sforza union has brought us nothing but trouble. We will do better next time.’

‘Does my husband know about this?’ She sees him standing before her, a man almost too eager to leave.

‘It is a family of traitors, not fools, so his cousins may have picked up a glimmer of some gossip. We have yet to put the matter formally before the lawyers.’

‘And what if they don’t agree?’

He shrugs. ‘They will earn my grave displeasure. But you are not to worry. It is decided. If it cannot be done one way it will be done another.’

‘What other way could there be?’

He studies her for a moment, as if deciding whether to proceed. ‘Well, there is the problem of issue. That after over three years there are no children in the marriage.’

‘I… I am not barren, Father,’ she says, the words rushing out before she can stop them.

‘No, no. I am sure of that. We Borgias could people Rome if we had the time,’ he laughs. ‘No, the fault obviously lies with your husband.’

‘Giovanni?’

‘Yes. Tell me, when you are together, does he come much to your bed?’

She colours fast, but the answer is there in the shake of her head.

‘What about in the past? Perhaps not then either.’

‘When? I don’t quite…’

‘Child, I am asking if the marriage was properly consummated.’

‘Oh! I… Yes… yes, I think so.’

‘You think? You are not sure? You know what I am referring to?’

‘Yes…’ Lucrezia is now in an agony of embarrassment. ‘I mean yes, I am sure it was.’

‘I wonder. You see, he leaves you so often. That is not the behaviour of a man who desires to lie with his wife. And yours was not a public bedding.’ He pauses. ‘No one but you – and he – know what took place that night. So, my dear, if there was any doubt…’

‘But there isn’t. It—’

‘Let me finish. If there was any doubt… if for instance your husband finds such things difficult, as some do… then after three years of marriage that would be sufficient grounds for an annulment. You would be surprised how many men are afflicted by this… condition.’

‘Are they?’

‘When it comes to ending a difficult marriage, yes.’ And he is so pleased with himself that he cannot help smiling. ‘Ah, what charming innocence you have still, my dearest. The next man who stands by your side will receive treasure unbounded. So. The Sforza pup is impotent. Ha! I always suspected as much,’ he says, the smile growing wider.

‘But Father, I didn’t say… I mean we did lie together. There was consummation, I – I am no longer a maid.’

‘Well, he may have fumbled a bit. But no one would doubt your word, if you gave it. Your pure heart and a pope for a father will see to that. It may not come to that. For now we will wait and hear what the lawyers say. Either way, his days are numbered. Come, don’t look so glum. You will be putting on a new wedding dress before you know it.’

She looks aghast. ‘And who will I be marrying?’

‘Oh, there are all manner of possibilities.’ He leans over and caresses her cheek. ‘Don’t worry. Whoever it is will make you happy. This is the year of greatness for our family. Our enemies will be defeated and we shall triumph in all ways.’

He is still beaming as he lets her out.

Defeating the enemies starts well enough. In mid-January, Trevignano’s medieval battlements fall to the papal artillery. All that remains is the fortress of Bracciano. The Dukes of Urbino and Gandia are mounting the guns to start the bombardment when news arrives from Naples: in the bowels of the Castel dell’Ovo the jailer has opened the door of Virginio Orsini’s cell to find him curled like a salted slug in a mess of vomit. Prison food carries all manner of corruption crawling within it, though many poor souls survive and grow immune to it. More important is the fact that the man who brings and divides the slops each day is no longer to be found anywhere. As perfidy goes, it is politically unsurprising. Indeed, the head of a family dying from administered poison at the same moment that his enemies launch a full-frontal attack on his territories makes so much sense that few can be bothered to be outraged about it.

Except those who love him most. It is Calderón who is given the further honour of taking and receiving news from the front line. When it reaches as far as Virginio Orsini’s sister, besieged in the castle, she stands out on the battlement overlooking the lake, weeping and laughing into the wind. For months she has been plagued by images of a man dying inch by slow inch in a dank pit where daylight never reaches. Revenge is a better weapon than anxiety and she will sleep more deeply now, despite the sound of cannon fire in her ears.

In Umbria, where Orsini’s illegitimate son Carlo is trying to raise a force to break the siege, fury and grief add urgency to his cause. Using money from the French purse, he buys two of Italy’s most effective professional condottieri – one of the brawling Baglioni brothers from Perugia, and Vitellozzo Vitelli, a commander who knows a thing or two about artillery. It is hardly a great army, but its arrival to the west of the lake draws the papal troops away from the siege of Bracciano to meet them on the slopes of Monte Cimone. The military talents of the Duke of Gandia are about to be tested.

As the messenger, it’s Calderón’s job to ride, not fight, but the sight of the carnage and the wounded has its impact and when he mounts his horse to take the news to Rome he is shaking. In case of bad news Cesare had ordered that he comes to him first.

He listens grimly.

‘What should I tell His Holiness?’

‘Just what you have told me.’

Alexander is at private prayer in the Niccoline Chapel, its warmth and intimacy more inviting than the great emptiness of the Sistine. Since Juan’s departure he has found himself drawn to it regularly.

‘Father?’

As he registers Cesare’s presence behind him he feels a wave of cold shock run through his body.

In the stateroom outside, Pedro Calderón, dishevelled and distraught, is already on his knees.

‘What? What is it? Tell me.’

Calderón glances at Cesare, who nods.

‘Holy Father, the news is not good. We have lost the field to the Orsini.’

‘Lost? How badly lost? What about Juan, the Captain-General of the Church?’

‘He… he is taken wounded. There is no danger… the doctors say he will live. I made sure of that before I left. He is making his way to Rome now, but he sent me on ahead to let you know that he has withdrawn from battle.’

‘What of the Duke of Urbino? Is he withdrawn too?’

‘The Duke was captured early in the battle, Your Holiness. Orsini’s son holds him now for ransom.’

‘Ah! God’s wounds. How could this happen? We had them at our mercy. Aah! How many? How many did we lose?’

‘Five, six hundred dead, maybe three times that many wounded.’

‘And the enemy?’

Pedro shakes his head. ‘The day went to them by more than four to one.’

Twilight comes early on winter days. The Pope sits in darkness in his bedchamber. Recently his legs have been causing him trouble. Perhaps he is not used to spending so much time on his knees. There is a long groan of pain down the side of the right calf from the knee and his foot is so swollen that it looks like a tree trunk. His bed servant massages it patiently each night with oils, but his touch tonight brought more pain than relief and he has sent him away. Sixty-six years old. What does he expect? The world is full of old men racked with aches and pains. He can still move faster in his head than many half his age, but then he also knows that the morgue is no respecter of ambition.

He does not regret the decision to have Orsini poisoned. To bring a family to its knees you have to strike at the head as well as the limbs. The man was a traitor and deserved to die. If their places had been reversed Virginio would have afforded him no better treatment. God needs a strong Church with a strong pope, and a strong pope needs a firm foundation of power. The interests of the papacy and the Borgias have been moving hand in hand for so long that he has become used to substituting one for the other: he is doing what is best for all, their survival of the French invasion has proved that. Yet the scale of this defeat and the direct attack on the body of his son gives him a moment of doubt. While he is not a man to dwell on history – the needs of the present take all his time – he finds himself thinking of Pope Sixtus, wily and pious by turns, and how his murderous attack on the Medici had ended in ignominy, the conspirators strung up and dangling from the windows of Florence’s town hall. When the news came to him of the failure, and the close escape of his own nephew, did he ever think to question whether it was God’s will or just Fortuna?

He cancels his visit to Giulia and orders a vigil in the Niccoline Chapel with a small group of cardinals in attendance. It is a long night. The stabbing up and down his right leg keeps him alert to his prayers. Cesare stands at the back and watches. He has said nothing.

Next afternoon, the Duke of Gandia arrives back, breathless with pain, in the back of a litter.

‘They had men with pikes, like the Swiss Guard. As they plunged into the cavalry a giant of a man knocked me from my horse. I thought it was my end.’

Alexander pulls his son’s head towards him and holds it to his chest. ‘You are not dead,’ he says. ‘That is all that matters.’

In the Pope’s own apartments half a dozen doctors hover as they unwind a bandage from his torso to expose a livid gash across his chest. The doctors usher Alexander from the room. When they emerge they are hard pressed to know what to say: not only is the Duke of Gandia in no immediate danger, but with the right salves he might be up and dancing within a few days, for under the blood there is nothing more than a flesh wound.

‘I told you that you should not face pikemen with cavalry,’ Cesare says quietly as father and sons sit together that evening, assessing the damage. His brother’s humiliation has left him pleasantly calm. ‘The horses are thrown by the length of the lances. I have seen it happen myself.’

‘It was not our intention to meet them that way.’ Juan rises to the bait. ‘But they outflanked us.’

‘And you didn’t think to regroup?’

‘Enough.’ Alexander looks weary. ‘What is done is done. The question is, what next?’ He glances at Cesare.

‘Without Bracciano, it is not a victory, father.’

‘But neither is it a defeat. We hold ten other castles. So we negotiate. They will pay with money rather than blood.’

‘And the Duke of Urbino?’

‘Bah! He has a town full of citizens. If they love their lord they can find the money to pay his ransom.’

‘He is highly thought of among the other princes. We will make an enemy out of an ally.’

‘Only one who can’t fight. It might teach others to do better.’

Juan has the decency to drop his head. ‘I am ready to go back into the field, Father,’ he says, wincing ostentatiously as he does so. ‘We only lost a few hundred men. I could fight again, I know.’

‘Are you sure?’

He coughs, grimacing again. ‘Yes, yes. I could do it.’

Alexander looks at Cesare again, but his elder son’s face still gives nothing away.

‘Very well… then let’s talk about Ostia.’

Ostia. A small fortress but a huge symbol, Cardinal della Rovere’s strategic castle on the mouth of the Tiber has been in French hands since he fled Italy. It is now the last bastion of their power on Italian soil. To make sure of triumph the Pope has already sent out a call for Spanish help, and a force under Gonsalvo de Córdova, who is in the south mopping up the last of the resistance, is already on its way.

‘He is the greatest general of his day, my son. With his infantry and our artillery attacking from both sides, the French don’t stand a chance. Isn’t that so, Cesare?’

‘As long as you do exactly what you are told this time, little brother,’ Cesare says, the cold smile he has been holding back breaking out at last. ‘That is all it will take.’

And so it does.

In chapel Alexander laughs and cries as he thanks the Virgin for her many intercessions on his behalf, the protecting of Juan from further injury and the fall of Ostia being only the two most recent. Any doubts he might once have had are swept away in the exhilaration of the moment. God favours those who take chances. Even his leg bothers him less as he summons Burchard to give orders for the ceremonies to follow. It is a moment he has been waiting for for a long time: the Borgias have their own military hero to celebrate.

In the Pope’s private chambers, amid cardinals and dignitaries, the veteran Gonsalvo de Córdova kneels to receive his reward: a sculpted golden rose, similar to the one given to the French just before their brush-off. Then, wreathed in smiles, the Pope turns his attention to his son, who steps up to be invested, in perpetuity, as Duke of Benevento, reigning over a newly created domain carved out of the lands recovered by Córdova around Naples.

The applause that greets the announcement is peppered by gasps of astonishment. Everyone in the room knows that the victory belongs to Córdova, not the Duke of Gandia: it is one thing for a commander to be awarded the spoils of his own campaign, quite another for them to be given to someone else.

Córdova himself shows no trace of emotion. In gnarled middle age, he is a survivor, a man who earned his spurs in the conquest of Granada, then had the wisdom to help negotiate peace. Like many Spaniards, he prides himself on being a man of honour, as fierce for God as he is for glory, and the smells of corruption that he finds wafting through the corridors of the Vatican have turned his stomach. The diplomat in him will keep his counsel till he reports back to his own monarchs. But once there he will not mince his words: the papacy may be in the hands of a Spaniard, but he is a man who cares more for his family than for the Holy Mother Church.

He is not the only one to spread the word. Over the following days ambassadors sit down to recreate the scene, commenting as they do on the emerging shape of dynastic power in Italy, with the tendrils of Borgia ownership creeping ever deeper into the kingdom of Naples. But the truly sharp-eyed will have noticed something else: that along with all the obvious suspects of the Orsini and the Colonna and the other families who are suffering from the growing power of the Borgias, there are signs of tension within the tribe itself. So that when Isabella d’Este sits at her desk in Mantua reading one of many scandal-ridden dispatches on life in Rome, she will be particularly struck by the thought that, while they may try hard to conceal it, the sons of the Pope are consumed with envy of each other.