Blood & Beauty The Borgias

Chapter 25



To be lauded as a hero for a battle that everyone knows you didn’t win could be a burden as much as a triumph. Juan, however, manages to remain oblivious. Rome has become his plaything and he swaggers from one party to another, barely noticing the smirks and insults that are exchanged behind his back. Inside the Vatican the Pope is so swayed by family triumph that the politician in him is eclipsed by the besotted father.

Out on the streets, the atmosphere is strained. While Ostia was falling to the papal troops, the coffin carrying Virginio Orsini’s remains had been making its way through the capital en route to his final resting place in Bracciano and attracting a small army of angry supporters in its wake. Nightfall now sees knots of belligerent young men gathering around the piazzas in search of brawls and knife fights. Not just the Orsini. With the consolidation of Borgia power, the Colonna and the Gaetani also have their noses out of joint. The structures of family influence have been part of the make-up of Rome for centuries, and when the balance is being rocked, as it is now, Rome can become an unstable city.

Juan, meanwhile, has his attention fixed on pleasure. His greatest badge of honour is his fast-healing wound, which gives him even more reason to strip off his shirt for any lady who might take his fancy. There is an army of professionals who would probably undress him for free, such is his status, but he is looking for tougher conquests. His return to court has not gone quite as he expected, as Sancia, far from throwing herself at his feet, has had her mind on other things. In Naples, the young King, her half-brother, has died and the level of her grief surprises everyone. She has grown up a little in the last few months. Her fever for Cesare has both scorched and purged her, so that now, as she grows homesick, she find herself longing for men who, like her brother, make her feel safe rather than always on fire. As the court whirls and dances its way into summer, she retires more to her bedroom, where she and Jofré play cards or games of chance. In bed, when she is sad he is happy to stroke and cuddle her rather than play-act the rutting animal. Coming in one morning, her ladies find them curled in each other’s arms like sleeping puppies, as sweet as they are still young.

Juan, however, is not used to women refusing him. One night at dinner, he sits himself deliberately between her and Jofré. The talk grows saucy and he uses his free hand to test her resistance under her skirts. She moves herself away and he is about to persist when Jofré takes his bright silver fork, a new and fashionable weapon, more vicious in its way than the knife, and plunges it into the back of his brother’s other hand.

Juan roars with pain.

‘Oh, I am sorry! I am sorry, brother,’ Jofré yelps, ducking the return blow. ‘I was sure that was a cockroach on your plate.’

Sancia, on the other side, bursts out laughing. Juan, sensitive to anyone who mocks him, throws back his chair and leaves the table in fury.

‘Oh, my gallant knight.’ She hugs her husband, nuzzling his head to her breast. ‘You saved my virtue! What a perfect husband.’

When Cesare hears the story he cannot help but smile. He is struggling with his own furies. The injustice of his brother’s new dukedom rubs like a hair shirt. It appals him to see his father so smitten. Not that he too isn’t being favoured. A new King of Naples means another coronation, and a cardinal legate to stand in for the Pope. He is clearly too young and inexperienced in Church matters to be considered, yet Alexander has pushed his name through despite the howls of protest. While they have enough cardinals in the Sacred College to ensure any vote, even their own men are finding such blatant nepotism uncomfortable.

In response, Cesare, who is well aware of the mood in the city, has taken to keeping a low profile. When men are angry about injustice it does not help to have their noses ground in it. He would like to slam his brother up against a wall and give him some lessons on how to behave, but he is worried that if he were to start he would not know when to stop. Better to stay out of his way.

It is at this delicate moment that Giovanni arrives back in town. Vice-Chancellor Cardinal Sforza may not be the Pope’s favourite churchman, but he can catch the wind of gossip as well as the next man. If the Sforzas are not going to go the way of the Orsini, the family need this marriage to continue as much as the Pope wants to dissolve it. Under pressure from both the cardinal and Duke Ludovico, Giovanni is ordered to return to Rome to fight for his wife. By the time he gets there he has become almost immune to the rats that are gnawing at his bowels.

Alexander, who will choose his own moment to deliver the coup de grâce, welcomes him with hearty smiles and back-slaps. Giovanni has trouble not falling over.

On the way from the Vatican to his own palace he runs into the Cardinal of Valencia, who is so obviously loitering that it is clear the meeting is deliberate.

‘And what are you doing in town, traitor?’

The fear cuts through the pain so sharply that for a moment Giovanni feels almost relief. ‘I am come to see my wife.’

‘She doesn’t want to see you.’

‘How would you know that, Your Most Reverend Lord Cardinal?’

‘Because no woman wants a man who deserts her,’ he says sweetly.

But Giovanni holds his ground. They are both attended by servants and neither of them is armed. What can he do? Strangle him with his own bare hands?

‘She is still my wife. I would ask you to step out of the way. Please.’

‘Really. And what if I don’t?’

Giovanni says nothing. They both stand rigid, waiting for the other to make the first move. Then suddenly Cesare laughs and falls back.

‘You lay a hand on her and what little balls you have I’ll cut off myself,’ he says to his brother-in-law’s retreating figure.

Giovanni does not turn back.

Lucrezia is in her bedroom, curled on the window seat in golden afternoon light, working on an embroidered silk for a shawl. Like all women of her class she was trained young in needlework and has a fine eye and a steady hand. While men are called upon to decorate the walls of palaces and churches, the delicate beauty of a piece of embroidered cloth brings another, quieter kind of satisfaction to those who pour their souls into it. At times of stress it can be almost as comforting as prayer. Since the interview with her father, however, she notices that she has been making more mistakes.

‘Giovanni! What are you doing in Rome?’ Her needle freezes halfway to the outline of a rose petal. ‘This is not a place for you now.’

‘So it seems. How are you, wife?’

‘Why didn’t you send word that you were coming? I have not heard from you in months.’

‘Well… I – I did not think you cared that much.’

He looks around. He barely recognises the room, it is so long since he has been here. ‘You look well,’ he says at last. ‘How are Jofré and Sancia? I hear her half-brother is dead.’

‘Yes, and she is most affected by it. The court is not as it was. Though Juan has come home bright enough.’

‘Ah yes, the golden-boy duke. And what about us?’ He takes a step towards her and she flinches backward, the needle catching into her finger so that she gives a little cry. He stops. ‘The talk is that you are trying to slough me off.’

‘Oh, why do you pick now to come? I have been waiting for months. You didn’t answer letters. I thought… I can’t speak of this now.’

‘So it is true?’

She shakes her head.

‘Then it is not true? God in His heaven knows there is no reason that would stand up in a court, whatever they are telling you.’ He stares at her, as if trying to read what she does or doesn’t know. Sitting bathed in the light she looks lovely, so young still, even innocent. ‘Why don’t you come back with me to Pesaro, Lucrezia? We could start again. The city needs its duchess. And I need my wife.’ He can barely believe his own power. It is as if he is a player in a spectacle someone else has written.

‘I cannot, Giovanni,’ she says in a small voice. The pinprick of blood welling up on her finger drops on to the silk. A blood-red rose then. ‘Even if I wanted to. It’s too late.’

‘I have risked my life to come here. I know things between us have not always gone well. But when we were together in Pesaro we found a way to live. I remember that for a while you were almost gay there. You’re not like the rest of your family. You have kindness and love in you that they will snuff out. If they want another husband for you it has nothing to do with your happiness.’

‘Please, don’t say these things. It is not in my hands. It never has been. You should have come when they called. It is too late now. You must get your family to help you.’

‘Why? What is your father going to do? We are married, Lucrezia. Even he can’t change that.’

She shakes her head. ‘You should go home now.’

‘What?’ He looks around him, as if the danger might even be in the room. ‘Is he intending to have me cut down on the streets? Has it come to that?’

‘No, no… but… I cannot speak for my brothers. They are more hot-headed than him.’

‘You mean Cesare?’

‘Please. Go.’

‘I tell you, he is a madman, your brother. He can barely keep his hands off you. God help our Church as long as he is in it.’

She is not looking at him any more. Behind him he hears footsteps. He turns in a panic as to whom he might find there. But it is only Pantisilea, her lady-in-waiting, hovering in the background and making signs to her mistress over his head.

‘It’s all right. I am going. But I give you one piece of advice. Make sure the next husband is one you dislike even more than me. God forbid you should ruin the life of a man you really care for.’

Giovanni heads back home as fast as his horse will carry him. When his more powerful cousins demand to know why he has fled, he sends anxious, whining letters to both, hinting at dark conspiracies and insisting – from a safe distance – that he will never ever agree to give up his wife, whatever pressure is brought to bear.

His worst fears are realised when, at the end of May, the Pope dispatches no less a figure than the general of the Augustinians to Pesaro to help his son-in-law ‘understand the choices’ at his disposal. In case there should be any doubt, Alexander also lays out the terms in a meeting in Rome with the Vice-Chancellor. The Sforza/Borgia marriage is over; it would be best if his cousin agrees that it had never been valid in the first place. Otherwise they may have to resort to ‘other’ reasons: the Duchess of Pesaro, he adds darkly, is both ready and willing to sign a declaration to that effect. Should their two families not wish a further falling-out, he would urge a smooth and rapid resolution. He is, he hints with a bright smile, willing to be flexible on the return of the dowry.

Ascanio Sforza swallows his outrage. It is a taste he has grown familiar with. He knows that one way or another the Borgias will get what they want. Better for everyone if they can be persuaded to take the first course. He will get nothing out of Alexander, or his eldest son, whom he is beginning to fear as much as the Pope himself. The beloved Duke of Gandia though is easier to approach, assuming one can find a way in through the layers of preening. What is clear is how much he likes a party. So the Vice-Chancellor now goes out of his way to organise one: another celebration for the glorious hero of papal victories.

The guest list is extensive and the menu large: a man used to eating at the private dinner table of the Pope is always appreciative of more luxurious fare. The animals and birds are slaughtered on the day to ensure the freshest meats. From France comes a new recipe for calves’ kidneys mashed with eggs and spices, while another pan bubbles on the stove like boiling blood, pork juice thickened with flour and a sack of cherries. When our hero is tired of meats there will be fish, and pasta stuffed with oranges and pine nuts, ricotta tarts filled with every fruit in season, and a table of cheeses. You could eat all night and there would still be more to taste in the morning.

The company starts off as exclusive, but the word spreads and as the evening progresses there are not enough guards to see off the groups of men, clerics as well as young bloods, who find their way into the highly decorated salon and courtyard. Twilight turns to darkness and on such a sweet summer evening everyone gives way to pleasure. Juan arrives late; rumour is that he is courting a young beauty due to be married to another man, and therefore a perfect challenge to his vanity, and that he has been trying to get himself into her bedroom while her father is looking the other way. At least he enjoys the food, and the wine, which he drinks in quantity too fast to notice how much of the Vice-Chancellor’s money has been spent on it. As the hero of the moment, at least in his own mind, he does a few laps of honour around the room, receiving compliments from those alert enough to remember to pay them. The number is perhaps less than usual, but then the food is so rich that after a while it is easier to lie down to digest it. Juan, evidently frustrated by his inability to get into his sweetheart’s bedroom, starts to feel unappreciated. He moves past a group of young nobles tossing out insults as if they were high wit: phrases like ‘stuffed bladders’ and ‘lounging Roman gluttons’ are thrown like stray punches. One of them hits back. The words ‘Spanish bastard’ come out loud enough for others to hear. An exchange of slanders: a common enough dance on the night streets of most cities.

Juan, however, snaps around in instant outrage, and there is a sudden hush as the room holds its breath, waiting for a weapon to be drawn. Instead the duke, flushed and unsteady on his feet, flings down his goblet and marches out of the room. By the time the Vice-Chancellor gets to the courtyard, his honoured guest is on his horse and out on the streets, hammering towards the bridge and the Vatican. Ascanio Sforza returns, a nervous smile on his face, and waves the guests back to enjoyment.

But Juan Borgia is not finished yet.

The Pope is sitting through a less than enjoyable foot massage and drinking his after-dinner fennel-and-mint infusion when his son storms into his chamber, ranting about insult and violation. The servant is dismissed, Juan’s voice ringing in his ears as he backs out of the room.

‘Roman scum!’ the Pope says when he has heard it. ‘I thought we had silenced their crowing. If I had a ducat for every ill word spoken against us, we might have made our fortune quicker than we have. You were right to walk away, my son. It is beneath a duel. We will deal with them later.’

‘You don’t understand, Father. I’ve come here because later will be too late. The attack was directed at me but it was aimed at you. Because I am your heir. It is you he was insulting. And such disrespect should be paid for immediately.’

The door opens on the Cardinal of Valencia. The servant’s fast exit and the raised voices have caused commotion outside. Juan scowls, but his brother is already in the room.

‘What is it? Are we attacked?’

Alexander shakes his head. ‘Your brother has been severely wounded by words.’

Cesare listens. When the story is finished he can hardly hold back his sneer. ‘So where were your sword and your men?’

Gandia turns on him. ‘I’m a general, not a thug. I don’t grapple and brawl like some.’

‘How many of them were there, brother?’

‘Four, five… what does it matter?’

Cesare’s look is its own answer.

‘This is not about me,’ he roars. ‘It was deliberate provocation against the papacy.’

Cesare opens his mouth, but Alexander silences him with a look.

‘It is justified anger, Juan. And it will not go unmarked. We will have an apology or people in jail by tomorrow morning.’

‘Tomorrow it will be all around town. We should hit back now, hard, so they get the message that we are not for playing with. They will be laughing behind our backs already.’

‘No doubt about that,’ Cesare says under his breath.

‘So what would you have us do instead, my son?’

‘Fight fire with fire. Send in the Papal Guard now and string the man up for all to see as a warning to others.’

Cesare lets out a hiss of a breath. Juan turns on him.

‘What – you don’t have the stomach for that, cardinal?’

‘It is not to do with stomach. The Vice-Chancellor has immunity in his own home. It would be a breach of Church law.’

‘Oh – Church law!’ Juan says, making it sound like a petticoat game. ‘That would be your business, yes? Except I am talking family justice in the face of treachery.’

‘Ah, grow up, brother. It was common insult, not treachery. It just got you where it hurt, in your vanity. An easy hit. All you do is make enemies. The wives you chase, the husbands you insult, the way you swagger around. Half of Rome hates you already. If you send soldiers in to do your dirty work, the other half will feel the same tomorrow. Yes, Father, I know you want me to stop, but someone has to tell him,’ he says quickly. ‘If it hurts so much to be called a bastard, Michelotto will come out with you tonight and see this man doesn’t go home with his insides still in his body. My household never sleeps till dawn anyway.’

‘That’s your way, not mine. You do things in the dark because you’re in Church robes and you don’t want anyone to recognise you. You don’t need to worry. You might be important in here, Cesare, but I tell you, out there on the streets no one has heard of the Cardinal of Valencia. I am the one who holds the honour for this family. It’s my sons that will inherit half of Naples. Thanks to my victory on the field.’

‘What? A few Spanish f*cks and a botched battle and now you’re a hero?’

‘You dare—’

‘Sorry. Have I insulted you? Poor Juan. You want to fight me?’ And he moves closer. ‘Or maybe you should just get Father to do it for you.’

‘Cesare!’ Alexander’s voice cuts into them both.

His eldest son takes a deep breath, his eyes cold as a cat. ‘I am sorry, Your Holiness.’ He lifts up both his hands as if in surrender before stepping back. ‘We are talking family business and I thought you might want to hear my advice on the subject. I wish you well, brother. I will be in my rooms if I am needed.’

And he turns and walks out, leaving the door open behind him.

‘Cesare.’ Alexander’s voice reaches out through the door into the room beyond. ‘Cesare!’

But he does not stop.

‘He’s a bad loser,’ Juan says sourly. ‘He always was. But he is wrong about this, Father. I was there and he was not. I know what we should do.’

The Pope looks at his son’s angry, handsome young face and the insult he has sustained becomes his own. Spanish bastard! How dare they abuse the family thus after all he has done for Rome? It is, indeed, insupportable and must be punished.

His beloved Juan cannot be denied.

In the Vice-Chancellor’s palace there is madness and mayhem. The cohort of papal troops, with Juan at the head, break their way in past the guards. The screaming starts even before they enter the room, men and women running for cover, the offending young man, desperate to save himself, hiding behind chairs and tables. Furniture is smashed, food and wine flung everywhere as they try to root him out. A couple of other young bloods draw weapons and there is a short battle among the debris of the night. One of the guests takes a wound, the others scatter. In the end they find him: a woman is trying to hide him, or maybe he is just clinging to her skirts. As they drag him away she begins to yell, a high-pitched howl like a wounded animal, and he joins in. By the time they get him out of the palace, half the neighbourhood is awake and watching. Anyone who is anyone in Rome is now either in the palace or on the streets. They fling his bound body over the back of a horse as he thrashes violently, and ride a few blocks to the river, at the edge of which there are trees of suitable height. As they throw the rope he lies crying for mercy, begging Juan to forgive him. They string him up and he hangs awkwardly for a second, choked yells coming out of him. One of the guards grabs his legs and pulls sharply. His neck snaps and the body slumps, swinging madly to left and right. Behind on the bank a small crowd gathers. As the soldiers mount and ride away a few throw stones at them, though from far enough away that they will not hit. The mix of fear and outrage is palpable.

Next morning half the city comes down to gawp at the sight. The early-summer sun parboils the flesh, and by nightfall the corpse is already turning putrid.