Blood & Beauty The Borgias

Chapter 45



Long before there is anything to see, they can hear it. Distant thunder. The men in the fields pull the oxen to a halt, putting down the forks and spades, clambering across the half-turned earth until they are closer to the paved road, though not so close as to attract attention. The women stay where they are, calling to the smaller children, making sure they are behind their skirts before they too lift their heads and squint into the distance.

The sharp-sighted now make out a blur on the western horizon. They wait patiently as the rumble grows and the mass gains shape and definition. First they see the phalanx of steel horses glint and shine through rising dust as they march towards the morning sun. The thunder breaks into a mass of individual sounds, horseshoe metal on stone, animals snorting, steel plates clashing: the noises of war. The metal giants, horse and man fused together by armour, ride six abreast, line after line, too many to count. A few children, wide-eyed in wonder, shout out and are cuffed into silence by their parents.

Behind the horses come the pike carriers, the first rows picking their way through fresh piles of dung. They keep the same pace as the cavalry despite the weight of their great timber staves; impossibly tall men with matted hair falling onto leather jerkins, worn pouches and water bottles slung round their shoulders. Now it is the turn of the infantry and regular foot soldiers. Each man carries the same rations as the Roman legions did when they tramped this road fifteen hundred years ago – half a gallon of watered wine and a quarter-loaf of bread, all bought at market prices, fair and square: generous enough to have become gossip; generous enough to tempt the young in the fields to think of throwing down their spades and joining them. Fathers hold on to their sons a little tighter as they pass.

They keep on coming and coming until the great road of the Via Emilia is filled both in front and behind as far as the eye can see. With the kitchen carts and supply mules the mood changes: drivers whoop and laugh, big leering smiles as if they have been at their own wine supply. Most of what they say makes no sense; French, Italian, Spanish, German, Gascon; there are so many tongues glued together here that a new diced, spliced language has been created from them all, its vocabulary sufficient to the needs of war: fighting, eating, defecating, sleeping, plundering.

After a while the women turn away, back to the earth. It is an army. They have seen it before and they will see it again. The men are waiting for the guns.

They are buried in the midst of more infantry, mounted on carts pulled by teams of horses as strong as any oxen and able to move twice as fast to keep up with the pace of the army.

‘Boom. Bom. Bard.’

The chant is a drumbeat in time to the footfalls of the gunners who march beside the carts, their dress as black as the cannons.

‘Boom. Bom. Bard.’

The first gun is the biggest: La Tiverina, named after the great river in Rome, nine foot long with a mouth wide enough to spit out stone balls as big as a man’s head. They say that when the guns have all been shot and a city taken, the commanders send in special soldiers to find where the cannonballs have fallen, scraping off the blood and the brains and heaving them back on to the carts to use them another time. Thrift and death: men who work the land understand the combination better than most.

‘Boom. Bom. Bard.’

The voices roll on under the wheels of the carts. A few of the younger men at the side of the road join in, as if the repetition of the words might ward off the terror. They are still chanting as the gunners disappear into the distance and the final carts clatter by, accompanied by a crowd of hangers-on: old men, boys too young to fight and a bevy of scrawny women, yelling invitations to the labourers, their language and gestures cruder than any of the soldiers’ before them.

The Borgia army is marching the Via Emilia on its way to war.

By the time the cavalry reaches the city of Imola, the scouts have already announced its arrival to the town’s custodians and picked a site close to where the towers of its fortress back up against the city walls. The latrines are dug, the cooking pots are belching the smells of stewed mutton and in the commander’s enclave the wine has been poured when a small delegation arrives.

They are shown into Cesare’s official tent, sparsely decorated with trestle table, chairs and stools. He is alone except for Michelotto, his shadow now but always at a slight distance, and the veteran leader of the French force, Yves d’Alegre.

The man who leads the handful of citizens has a clean-cut face and is fashionably dressed, a silk sash over his velvet jerkin and a plume of feathers in his cap. His boots however are filthy.

‘I am Giovanni Sassatelli,’ he says. ‘I am—’

‘I know who you are, Sassatelli,’ Cesare cuts in easily. ‘Imola has no older nor finer family than yours. If we are to go to war to bring the city back under the papal banner, then it will be my privilege to fight you.’

Sassatelli nods in acknowledgement of the compliment. When a man is about to swallow humble pie it helps to have some honour to ease its passage down the throat. ‘There will be no need for fighting, Duke Valentino. We are here to offer you the surrender of the city.’

Cesare is careful not to alter his expression. ‘And what moves the good citizens of Imola to make such a wise decision?’

‘We have heard of your magnanimity, your sagacity, your fairness. And we wish to commend ourselves into your hands.’

‘And your ruler? What does she think of this generous gift on her behalf?’

‘Caterina Sforza left for Forlì ten days ago, putting the city in the hands of myself and the governor, Dionigi da Naldo.’

‘Ah yes. Also a fine fighter.’ Cesare pauses. ‘He does not come with you?’

‘No. As governor he is also the castellan of the fortress.’ He hesitates. ‘The duchess has his children as hostage.’

‘Ah.’ Cesare glances towards his French counterpart. ‘Then we must see that his surrender does not bring them to any harm. Our guns will be in place by the day after tomorrow. We will need some local knowledge as to which walls are the weakest.’

‘There is a master carpenter who worked on the refurbishments a few years ago. I… I have spoken to him already.’

‘Excellent.’

‘You should know, my lord, of Imola’s great distress over the plot against the Holy Father. It was none of our making. We have not flourished under Sforza rule.’

‘I know that, Sassatelli.’ Cesare gets up and puts his hand on the man’s shoulder as he guides him out. ‘Rest assured I have not come to replace one tyranny with another. You are brought into the hands of the Church and there will be fair government here from now on, as well as opportunities for a fighter like yourself to earn glory elsewhere.’ And he offers him his most charming smile.

Returning to the table, he notes a wry grin on the Frenchman’s face.

‘What? You would prefer slaughter?’

‘Certainly not.’ D’Alegre waves his hand. ‘I am enjoying myself too much. Truly, my dear duke, there is no better country to make war in than Italy. Everyone is so… so reasonable when it comes to avoiding battle.’

‘You think it is a lack of courage?’

In reply, d’Alegre purses his lips, as if to prevent himself from agreeing.

‘I think rather that they see life for what it is and know when a ruler isn’t worth fighting for.’

‘Or that the next one will be better,’ the Frenchman says, knowing how fond his king has grown of this confident young warrior. ‘Nevertheless, what is good for the people is not always good for the army.’

It is a mark of Cesare’s passion for his new career that he does not take offence at d’Alegre’s patronising attitude. He knows that this veteran of the French campaign in Italy is aggrieved at having to share the field with an inexperienced twenty-four-year-old. He has gone out of his way to show him respect, engaging him in war talk, drinking in his stories of bombardments and battles, which he then revisits move by move in his head while others sleep. He has learned a great deal. But not all things need to be taught. The mood of the army is clear enough. He would like to see action as much as the next man – more, perhaps, since he knows he has something to prove – but he also has his father’s nose for politics, and with so many cities to be taken in so little time, stealth is as wise a strategy as glory. The last few days have brought rumours that the defeated Ludovico Sforza is planning a return into Italy. If he finds the troops to support him the King will call his army back and the Borgias’ great plan will have to wait.

Imola does not take long. On the carpenter’s information, the north wall of the fortress is breached within a day and its governor, da Naldo, having failed to receive the troops he asks for, surrenders and takes up the offer of service with the Borgias. Should he find his children slaughtered, he will at least have a way to take revenge: family is one thing that is always worth killing for.

With the city and its leading families in pledged obedience to the Pope and Borgia rule, the army moves on to Forlì. It is close to Christmas and the Virago is ready for them, embedded in the great fortress of Ravaldino inside the city walls. Safe in the knowledge that they will never again have to face her wrath, the nobles of the town ride out to offer formal surrender. The soldiers, driven on by the prospect of warm beds, strike a fast pace and arrive ahead of the artillery.

The triumph of entry is marred by hellish weather: lashing rains churning the streets into liquid mud, with intermittent artillery fire from the battlements of the fortress chasing them on. Discipline holds while the troops are billeted but by the time the artillery arrives the atmosphere is sour. As usual it is the Swiss and Gascon forces that set the pace, refusing to pay for what they can take for free. Six months on the road and it is Christmas, after all. The first cry of plunder is followed by a wave of violence which d’Alegre does not try hard enough to stop.

‘Who do they think they are, damn them!’ Cesare vents his rage at Michelotto. ‘I gave the leaders of the town my promise that this would not happen.’

‘What does d’Alegre say?’

‘What do you think he says? “It is most unforetuneight.”’ Cesare pouts his lips in imitation. ‘“But it is how souldjiers behave in war.” I tell you, if we didn’t need them so much I would plunder them myself. Imagine the satisfaction it brings her, watching her citizens slaughtered for deserting her.’

‘Ah, if she’s as canny as they make out, she’ll be more interested in the size of the cannons rolling up to her walls.’ He grins in his inimitably ugly way. ‘You know what soldiers say about her? That because she’s got teeth inside her cunt the only way to enjoy her is with an iron prick and stone balls.’

It is one of many obscenities circulating, some of them written down and sent by slingshot over the walls. Whether or not the lady reads them it is hard to know. She is a law unto herself. Her former citizens speak of a palace built around the keep with vaulted ceilings and tiled floors, a summer loggia frescoed with paintings of vines and surrounded by fruit trees and a herb garden for her precious cosmetics and unguents. Every twilight she parades herself for the world to see, walking the battlements between the towers, the setting sun making a fiery halo around her wild loose hair, lighting up her armour and her unsheathed battle sword as she goes. The artillery men setting up the guns below follow her progress in a kind of awe. The French commanders, weaned on stories of combat and chivalry, are no better. Those hoping for a glimpse beneath her skirts are disappointed. Her children – even the youngest, barely a year old – have been dispatched to safety and she is no longer, it seems, interested in making more.

Before the bombardment starts in earnest Cesare makes an attempt at negotiation.

‘It’s a waste of time. She’ll never surrender,’ Michelotto says.

‘I know that. I’m not doing it for her.’

At an agreed time, and dressed with the scarlet colours of Valentinois over his chain mail, he rides to the edge of the moat in front of the ramparts. Behind him, the troops stand eager for whatever entertainment is to come.

‘The humble fortress of Forlì is honoured to be the object of your ambitions, illustrious duke.’ A melodious voice, ringing out through a speaking-trumpet from the turret above the drawbridge, reaches past Cesare into the army behind. ‘What would you have from us?’

‘The surrender of yourself and your men to His Holiness the Pope and the Church.’ Cesare’s voice unaided is loud enough to be heard by all without amplification.

‘And in return?’

‘In return I guarantee you safe passage to join your children and an invitation to your brave troops for their further employment in my army.’

‘It is an honourable offer.’ The silence that follows enhances the theatre of the moment. ‘Perhaps we might discuss it in person.’

The drawbridge groans into life, cranking its way away from the wall and falling forward by juddering degrees. The horse whinnies slightly as it looms above them, but Cesare has judged the distance accurately and both rider and mount hold their spot as the wood slams to the ground, an arm’s length or so from its hooves.

A view opens into the fortress, revealing an empty courtyard, not a single soldier in sight. Now comes the lady herself, striding out on to the drawbridge, skirts the same scarlet colour as the sash flowing over her breastplate, bare arms despite the winter frost and waves of chestnut hair over her metal shoulders. She stops almost halfway across, planting her feet firmly and holding out her arms in a gesture of welcome, aimed as much at the whole army as at him.

‘So here I am, duke. Ready to talk,’ she shouts into the wind. ‘Won’t you join me? I have had many hours of pleasurable intercourse with men even younger than yourself.’

Behind him the men roar their approval. Italians, Spaniards, French, Gascons, whatever their nationality, there is only one man commanding them right now and they are waiting to see what he will do next. He lets them wait. Then slowly, each move conducted with exaggerated grace, he dismounts, running his hand down the horse’s neck as if to communicate something, before turning and stepping up on to the drawbridge to face her. How far is there between them? Twenty, thirty paces? He is in the forest again, attention focused on the dance between hunter and hunted.

‘Duke Valentino, I see your leg is even more shapely than they say.’

She takes a further few steps towards him, smiling broadly. He does the same. They stand in silence. Not close enough yet. What next?

She moves again. Three steps now. He mirrors her move.

Suddenly she lets out a girlish cry. The jolt of the rising bridge does little to disturb him since he has anticipated it already. She is turning almost before it happens, the descending incline between her and the fortress entrance easily negotiable as she runs. Above her the battlements are suddenly full of soldiers, yelling and screaming. But he is not listening. There is a familiar ringing in his ears as he too turns: he has nine – at best ten paces – paces to judge both the angle of the jump and the gap as it grows wider.

The horse, as bidden, has turned its back to the moat, ready for him, so that he will land the right way in the saddle. He propels himself into the air. There can be no mistake here, to enter the water would in its own way be as disastrous as being taken prisoner. How many times has he practised such trick leaps, from windows to courtyards below or one moving horse to another? But he has never done this before, and whatever the skill there is always risk. Why else would one do it?

It is closer than he would choose. He lands clumsily half on, half off the saddle, the jolt shocking his body deep into his groin as he grabs the mane to right himself. The horse rears up in protest, but he is safe now and can make a spectacle of it. What is imperfect to him still looks superhuman to others. The screaming and cheering from the bank is deafening and soon both sides are at it: howling across the water at each other like packs of rapid dogs.

As he rides past d’Alegre and Bailly de Dijon, the head of the Gascon force, Cesare raises his hand nonchalantly. The citizens of Forlì will sleep more securely in their beds tonight. Plunder may have its attractions, but for soldiers looking for action it is nothing to the excitement of the enemy goading them on.