Blood & Beauty The Borgias

PART VII


Throwing off the Purple

Iacta est Alea

The Die is Cast

INSCRIPTION ON A SWORD MADE FOR CESARE BORGIA, SUMMER 1498



Chapter 36


April 1498: a gentle spring day in the royal hamlet of Amboise in France and runty King Charles VIII with his good queen Anne of Brittany set out to visit an extension to his chateau built by a Neapolitan architect whose work had so impressed him that he had brought him back as war booty. The design is an ambitious one and everyone is excited to see the King’s reaction.

Perhaps it is the excess of anticipation – for the King is very eager. Perhaps it is carelessness, or perhaps (God forbid) the man is not up to the job and has got the dimensions wrong. Whatever the fault, His Majesty rushes in through a new door, stumbles on a loose floorboard and cracks his head on the wooden lintel. The thwack is heard by all around him and though he laughs after he groans, he is taken to bed seeing stars. One can only hope it is a good augury and when he wakes up he is indeed in heaven.

It is upsetting that such a silly death should befall the conqueror of half of Italy. Upsetting particularly for the house of Valois, since this sickly man has already presided over the deaths of his only four children in infancy. The crown of France now moves towards the closest living relative, Louis, Duke of Orléans. But those who stand to gain most from this cruel trick of fate do not have a French bone in their bodies. When the news reaches Alexander in Rome, his smile is as wide as the mouth of the Tiber. At some point all good Christian monarchs need something from their Pope, and though Louis may now have a crown, to keep his country intact he also needs help with a marital problem. The timing could not be better.

‘Where is the Cardinal of Valencia? Bring him to me. I need to see him immediately.’

The Pope’s son, however, is not in his rooms, nor anywhere else in the main palace. Neither is he to be found at early mass, though this is a surprise to no one; in recent months the Cardinal is so seldom in church that Burchard has taken to recording his appearances in his diary.

‘I believe, Your Holiness, that he may be in the courtyard of the Belvedere. He… exercises there some mornings with men from the Papal Guard.’

It is a routine that Cesare has been following slavishly, some might say religiously, for a while now. If he is indeed going to renounce his cardinalship (and the only question is how will he finance his lifestyle without the generous thirty thousand ducats a year that his revenues and benefices bring him), then he must be ready for his new profession: war. When he is not in the saddle he is practicing swordsmanship: both the rapier and the two-handed battle sword, a steel monster that needs as much stamina to wield as it does skill to land the right blow. This hard-chested, hard-hearted young man who can be so unforgiving with his servants is, in other ways, unforgiving with himself and there are times after particularly strenuous workouts when he can barely move for the groaning in his legs and arms.

With the rapier it is a more precise dance. The morning they come looking for him he is testing chain mail. Rome is full of master craftsmen vying for the privilege of protecting his precious body and as he moves around the courtyard the snake-ripple shine from a vest made of a thousand tiny woven steel loops is so mesmerising that a couple of his opponents miss their steps. Or maybe they are feigning inadequacy, for it is a risky business fighting the Pope’s favourite son.

‘I thought you said they were soldiers!’ he shouts to Michelotto, who is standing in the shade making notes as the last one leaves. ‘No one is even trying.’

‘What do you expect? They are being paid to fight, not to win.’

‘So pay them more and have them try harder.’

‘And what happens when you take a wound? Do we give them a bonus or string them up for skewering the Pope’s son?’

‘Then you fight with me.’

‘With pleasure.’

‘Double-handed swords.’

‘Ah, it’s too hot for more armour.’

‘Is that an excuse for you to lose?’

They put on breastplates and helmets and prowl around each other, feigning and parrying until one makes a lunge and the swords slam together, holding like fat magnets as they shove and stagger trying to get the better of each other, finally flinging themselves apart in order to start the whole ungainly dance again. The voices of clashing steel along with accompanying grunts reverberate around the gardens and it isn’t long before they grow weary from the mad effort of it all. But Cesare will not be the one to stop.

‘Enough!’ Michelotto yells at last, stepping back and dropping his sword on to the ground. He takes off his helmet and shakes the sweat from his hair, his latticework face grinning. ‘God knows, you had better throw off the purple soon. I don’t think I can take much more of this “pretend” warfare,’ he says as the Pope’s messenger puffs his way into the courtyard.

‘You have worked up a hard sweat.’ Alexander sits admiring the gleam on his forearms and half bare chest. ‘I will call for a robe. You should not risk a chill, even in clement weather.’

Cesare waves his hand. ‘It can wait. So… you are sure that Louis will give us what we want?’

‘Why would he not?’

‘They say there is a cunning streak in him.’

‘Cunning or not, even a king cannot dissolve his own marriage. I tell you, Cesare, we will have an offer of a dukedom for you or Louis will find he has only half a kingdom to rule.’

It is partly the symmetry that so delights Alexander: the way a problem can be so elegantly solved to the satisfaction of all parties. King Charles, for all his faults, had been smart enough to cement the union of French lands with those of Brittany by marrying its queen. Now Anne is a widow it is possible she might be tempted to assert the territory’s independence again. Obviously for the sake of France the new King must marry her himself.

A man could wish for nothing better, for she is lovely and still has juice enough in her loins to start a new dynasty. It is the perfect answer. Except for the fact that Louis already has a wife.

The Pope wrinkles his nose. ‘Of course, there will have to be a church commission to look into the matter. He is adamant that he was forced into the union against his will. Apparently his wife is “deformed” – certainly everyone says she is exceedingly plain – but who knows what goes on under her skirts. Haaaa. The wonders of women.’

‘He wants an annulment on the grounds of non-consummation?’

‘Hmm. Yes. Most likely that is what it will be.’

They sit for a moment in silence. The Pope’s mind flicks to Lucrezia. How she has turned somewhat inward herself these last few months, since the death of Pedro Calderón. She goes out of her way to avoid gatherings where she and her brother will be in the same room. It pains him to see his children estranged.

‘Tell me, how are things with Lucrezia?’

‘She is struggling to hate me as much as she loves me,’ he says quietly. ‘Don’t worry. It will pass.’

‘The sooner young Alfonso arrives the better. Women should not be left too long alone.’

It takes eight weeks for their plans to unfold. While everyone knows that the annulment will not come cheap, the details of the negotiations remain secret until the end. That the Cardinal of Valencia intends to leave the Church is common gossip now in Rome, but when it reaches Spain their Spanish Majesties are choleric with rage. Such a course of action would be an offence against God as much as the Church and their ambassador takes pains to relay their voluble horror. Alexander, who has never taken to being lectured by men less powerful than himself, snarls quietly under his breath. Let them stew in it.

When the deal is finally hammered out, it is so perfect that Alexander might have dictated the details himself. This time the conversation between father and son takes place in the open air, strolling amid the orange trees of the papal garden, with no chance of the walls listening in.

‘Louis will give you the Duchies of Valentinois and Diois.’

‘Is that enough?’

‘In land and prestige, certainly. In revenue, possibly not, though he will make up any difference himself. It is done, Cesare. You will have your titles and your income.’

‘What about military support?’

‘We shall mention it when the time is right.’

‘And my suit to Princess Carlotta? That is as vital as the money.’

‘The King knows that well enough. He will bring pressure on both her and her father. Don’t worry. She will come round. It is only a matter of time.’

During these months of waiting, Cesare’s proposed marriage into Naples has hit problems: Carlotta herself, who is under Louis’s care at the French court, is proving unexpectedly recalcitrant. By rights her father should bring her into line, but though he was all smiles and acquiescence when he bent his head for Cesare to put the crown on it, King Federico seems less enamoured of the idea now. To supply a bastard nephew to Lucrezia is one thing, but delivering his legitimate daughter into Cesare’s hands would be opening the royal nest to allow a scorpion to crawl in. As long as the Pope’s son still has a cardinal’s hat on his head he can put off the confrontation.

‘Louis should threaten Federico with invasion.’ The warrior in Cesare is growing restless with nothing to test his skills on. ‘That would concentrate his mind on the offer.’

‘Don’t even say it out loud, my son. When the French come this time we need them to stay north of the Apennines.’

‘When the French come’… Alexander picks his words carefully. The wonders of inheritance. At Louis’s coronation the list of titles that had followed his name included not only Naples – a surprise to no one – but also Milan, over which his Orléans lineage has a particular claim. (Go back far enough in the tangled webs of marriage and everywhere is half owned by someone else.)

Milan. Not only richer than Naples, but so much closer: a quick sprint up and over the Alps and the momentum of the slide down the other side takes you almost there.

‘Who would have thought it, eh?’ Alexander chuckles to himself. ‘That a small dent in a king’s skull could cause such a mighty headache for Ludovico Sforza. One moment he is offering the French Naples on a plate, the next they are taking Milan. There isn’t a man in Italy who will shed a tear on his behalf. You should learn from this, Cesare. Make enemies if you have to – and you will – but always make sure the most powerful stay your friends.’

‘I know these things already, Father,’ he mutters, slightly impatiently.

‘Then it will not hurt you to hear them again,’ Alexander says good-naturedly. ‘Come, give me an embrace. We have great things ahead of us now, and it will do me good to feel the sweat of exercise on the body of a soldier.’

Cesare comes as he is bidden and opens his arms to his father. The distance he must stretch his hands is larger now. Since Juan’s death, Alexander has both grown and diminished. At sixty-eight he carries the weight of two men and is developing a stoop to compensate for it. As he moves from room to room, sometimes you can hear him huffing and puffing. When the business of his own future was still much in the balance, Cesare would watch him and wonder how much time they had to remake the world around them, and feel a chill that it might not be long enough. But Alexander has never wavered. It is as if, once the mourning was over, Juan’s death had spurred him on. His avowed religiosity, as sincerely felt as his grief, had faded naturally as the scale of the task became apparent. A penitent pope was novel for a while, but whoever heard of humble cardinals? For many, reform was more shocking than corruption, and while they stalled, Alexander returned to family business.

Cesare is his Juan now, and this news from France lights an extra fire in his belly. As for his age – well, he doesn’t celebrate birthdays any more. Sixty-eight is only old if you intend to die soon. And death is not on Alexander’s agenda. His continued survival is the greatest revenge he can take on those who sought to destroy him.

He marks the anniversary of the murder with special masses for the dead, and visits his son’s tomb in the Borgia chapel of Santa Maria del Popolo, weeping unashamedly. But there is too much to be done for him to cry for long. With his ambassadors en route to France and the Duke and Duchess of Squillace back in Rome, the Vatican is already plunged into preparations for Lucrezia’s second marriage.

Sancia is all of a tremor at the prospect of her brother’s arrival. She spends hours with Lucrezia, painting pictures of Alfonso’s perfection and imagining their lives together at court, and their renewed friendship is a balm to both of them.

She has returned sunnier than she left, her exile having gone some way to heal her wounded pride in the affair with Cesare. During their first public encounters she goes out of her way to show that she cares not a fig for him, and is a little disconcerted when he is attentive all over again. But the feral cat in her smells deceit and she remains brittle in his presence. She is right, of course. Cesare has no feelings for her (which is not the same as disliking her, though she will read it as such), but as long as he has his sights set on Naples, he must show affection for the whole family.

He has already done his best to charm Alfonso in the weeks they spent together after Federico’s coronation, and he is now determined to make his welcome to Rome a rich one. It is not just strategy: Cesare is in high spirits. As soon as the details are hammered out between the diplomats, the date will be set for the secret Consistory of Cardinals where he will make his move to leave the Church. Finally he is a man in control of his own destiny.

Wooing back Lucrezia has proved a trickier process. When she continues to avoid him, he makes the first moves. Their initial encounters are painful. He comes with gifts: rich fabrics, books of prayer and poetry beautifully illustrated (he can be an attentive suitor when he chooses), but their conversation is marked by guarded politeness and raw silences. It is not that she sets out to resist him; rather that she cannot help herself. Seeing him makes her think of Pedro, so that she wants to rage and cry at the same time. But then, once he leaves, neither can she stand the feeling that she no longer loves her own brother. Because, of course, she does.

‘Lucrezia, we must make our peace over this.’ On the fourth meeting he confronts it directly. ‘You will know by now that when you asked for Calderón’s life that day, the matter was already out of my hands. You may think my behaviour was unjust, but in everything I did, your honour was uppermost in my mind.’

She sits upright in her chair, looking at him intently as the tears drop on to the bolt of new scarlet velvet in her lap. Later, when the fabric becomes a cloak, she will remember this moment each time she puts it on. She squeezes her eyes tight shut. This crying is futile, she says to herself sharply. It can change nothing.

‘I know that. It just seemed so… so cruel. He committed no crime.’

‘That is not true. His crime was his betrayal of me. And equally cruel is the damage that scandal inflicts on a woman’s reputation. Not only for herself but for her whole family.’

‘In which case, the fault was mine as much as his.’

‘No. Pedro Calderón was in my service. He knew the rules of loyalty well enough, and what to expect if he disobeyed them. But it is over, Lucrezia. We survived the storm. Your new husband is more a man than Sforza ever was and his coming, along with my marriage when it happens, will make the family secure. If there is a wound between us let it be healed now. You are my beloved sister. There is no woman I love more than you.’

She smooths the nap of the tear-stained velvet with her fingers. There are many things she could say. But none of them will bring back the dead. When she looks up at him

she sees echoes of Juan in his face. To resist him will be to have lost two brothers. What does that leave her with?

His eyes are clear and steady. If they lie about the past, they do not lie about the present. He is right: no one loves her as he does.

‘Oh, Cesare,’ she says.

To resist him is to resist herself. It cannot be done. The struggle is over.