Blood & Beauty The Borgias

Chapter 48



The victory parade that brings Duke Valentino and his army into Rome takes place in the last week of February. Carefully picked by the Pope, it is a wondrous piece of timing: jubilee fever combined with Carnival to provide a captive audience of thousands of pilgrims and revellers, plus a flood of villagers who have swelled the ranks of the army as it approaches the northern gate, eager to join in the largesse that accompanies victory. The last time a Borgia son had come back from war, there had been food and wine free for the taking. And he, the Duke of Gandia – that was his name, yes? Already people can barely remember – he hadn’t even won a battle.

But Cesare Borgia – oh, Cesare Borgia has proved himself a great warrior. The city is in an agony of anticipation. Beyond the gates the army stretches out half a mile, almost every man in new cloth or polished armour. Alongside the papal insignia and the colours of Valentinois, his men carry the banners of Imola and Forlì. Those same banners, copied and enlarged, are emblazoned across newly constructed towers in front of Castel Sant’ Angelo: two great cities of the Romagna returned to the papacy. Everyone knows that, by rights, there should be a third banner flying there – the state of Pesaro, a gem waiting to fall into the duke’s lap. But that is not what happened.

No one had felt more thwarted than Cesare himself.

‘My lord, wake up. You are needed.’

Early morning, barely a week after the taking of Forlì, and he is sleeping the sleep of a man who has only just gone to bed.

‘God’s wounds, Michelotto,’ he groans, rolling over. ‘Your face is a foul sight to open one’s eyes to. This had better be important.’

‘It is. You are about to lose half the army. Ludovico Sforza is on the march to retake Milan.’

Who would have believed the old tyrant had it in him? After the humiliation of his flight he had been consigned to the dungheap of history. But the poison he had been pouring into the ear of the German Emperor, Maximilian, has apparently borne fruit. To have Italy overrun by France and supported by the papacy with the Pope’s own son leading the way: such an outcome would skew the whole balance of power in Europe. If Spain did not have the stomach to resist, then Germany must.

‘Where are they?’ Cesare is already up and dressed.

‘Heading towards Lake Como.’

‘Then we still have time. If we break camp now we can reach Pesaro in a week.’

The French, however, have other ideas. ‘It is just too difficult,’ Yves d’Alegre says, throwing up his hands in defeat. ‘To move a whole army out so fast, and in such… well, inclement weather.’

‘Nevertheless, it can be done.’ Cesare has brought his own artillery expert with him. ‘Vitelli?’

‘I would say two, maybe three days to move the guns. Less if everyone pitches in.’

Behind d’Alegre, the Bailly de Dijon is busy making faces. Money, thinks Cesare. That is the only thing that enlivens those flabby features.

‘Ah – here, you see, we encounter a little problem. The Swiss and Gascon infantry are very tired after their magnificent work taking the fortress.’

‘Tired?’

D’Alegre shrugs, as if to say, What can I do? Such a talent for war brings temperament with it. ‘And then, when the call comes for us to march to Milan, as it must, they will be…’

‘Even more tired,’ Cesare says lightly. It has proved one of the hardest lessons of war, learning to keep his temper at bay. ‘What do they want?’

The Frenchman studies his cuffs. They are frayed; such a long time on the road. He could do with a return to court to contact his tailor. ‘When things go well, it is customary for elite troops to be rewarded with… how do you say?… A rise of pay.’ He sighs extravagantly. ‘Ah! I tell you, this business of making war is so expensive. Sometimes more when one is on the winning side.’

Cesare snorts. ‘So why don’t you share out your ransom money from your “protected prisoner”? Or maybe I could rent her out for a couple of nights, raise a few hundred ducats that way. I’m sure we would get enough takers.’

D’Alegre laughs. ‘Oh duke, you are a man of sublime wit. It is no surprise that our king is so very fond of you. But, of course, you will remember that you ’ave not paid us for the lady yet.’

‘… manners of pigs and the morals of money lenders. French scum, all of them!’ The plates and goblets at the dinner table chatter under the weight of Alexander’s fist. ‘Your brother is risking his life to bring glory to the Mother Church and what do they do? Sit in their tents scratching their balls, demanding more money. If they had moved faster, we could have taken Pesaro by now.’

Four years on and Pinturicchio’s own brush-strokes in the Room of the Mysteries still shine off the walls. Inside the stone fireplace a roaring blaze lights up the gaudy-coloured painted curtains and gilded tassels that drape and fall around the bottom half of the room. In comparison, the papal table in the centre offers a poor man’s feast. The taking of the cities in Romagna may be costing the Church a small fortune, but the Pope, as ever, is frugal: a jug of average Corsican wine and a couple of dishes of pasta and fried sardines to mark the Friday fast day. Whatever spices may be lacking are added by his spirit; sweet or sour dependent on the daily dispatches from the battlefield.

‘Dear Papà, it is not such a disaster. The campaign is already a triumph. Everywhere you go in Rome, people talk only of Cesare’s victories.’ Lucrezia’s face, though it may have lost its plump prettiness, gives off a different glow these days. Perhaps it is as simple as happiness. It is also infectious. In the weeks since the birth of Rodrigo, the Pope cannot get enough of her. With his eldest son at war, he feels the need of his family around him.

‘No, no, Father’s right! They are scum,’ Jofré, well oiled as usual, jumps in gleefully. Barely two weeks before, the French army had been the glorious toast of the table. It had not been an easy mouthful for a family full of Aragonese in-laws to swallow. ‘Cesare should have shoved their pay rise up their arses. That’s what I would have done.’

‘Then we must thank God you are nowhere near any army that bears our name,’ Alexander thunders. Jofré’s sojourn in Castel Sant’ Angelo has done little to improve his relations with his father, though it seems he is the only one not to notice it.

‘Oh, he does not mean it, Father,’ Sancia intervenes gaily, sliding the wine jug out of her husband’s reach. ‘It is only his humour.’

Under the table Lucrezia reaches out for her own husband’s hand.

‘It’s not the French but the Sforzas who are to blame. They are the reason Cesare lost half his army,’ Alfonso says quietly.

She knows there is part of him that is cheering Ludovico on: an army recalled to Milan cannot also be an army invading Naples. He is more of a politician these days, her fun-loving husband.

‘Awh, I know all that well enough.’ Jofré is already in search of the wine jug. ‘The Sforzas! They are worse than scum. The Sforzas are… they are lice!’ And his petulance is as funny as it is stupid, allowing everyone, even his father, to laugh at him.

‘Lice! Yes. Very good. The Sforzas are a family of lice.’ Alexander thumps the table again, this time with more theatre than anger. ‘Every time you think you have them between your fingertips, they scuttle off before you can crush them. But not now. Now we have the Virago behind bars and the French will grind Ludovico into dust soon enough. Which only leaves the puniest of all of them – Giovanni Louse.’

Lucrezia’s smile flickers for a second. She sees the salon of the ducal palace, its windows opened onto the sea breeze and a bustling little piazza beneath, pretty enough in its provincial way. Poor Giovanni Louse. He had always been more nuisance than evil, his only real sin not being powerful enough to choose his own marriage. For who in their right mind would take a Borgia daughter for his wife? She holds Alfonso’s hand tighter under the table.

‘Ah, look at that face, my sweet child.’ Alexander laughs delightedly. ‘My own daughter has compassion even for lice. Don’t bother your head with him, carissima, you have a better man by your side now.’

‘Oh, indeed I know. And I thank God – and you – in my prayers every day.’

‘Hmm, yes. So, how is my favourite grandson? Ready to hold a sword yet?’

‘You cannot imagine how fast he grows. From one day to the next, isn’t that right, Alfonso? He has drunk two wet-nurses dry already.’

‘See! I told you. A warrior from birth. We will have his name in history soon enough. A second Rodrigo Borgia, no less. Go on. Give your sweet wife a kiss, Alfonso. A man whose right shoulder is pulled so low is surely playing palms under the table. You think I am too old to remember such games? Well, you are wrong.’ And he beams.

Lucrezia drops her eyes as her husband leans over and kisses her chastely on the cheek.

The Pope roars his satisfaction and the candles dance in his breath. Once Ludovico has been defeated, Cesare will get his army back and Pesaro, Rimini and Faenza will fall soon enough. Two months into the jubilee year of Our Lord and the Borgias are riding higher than ever before. His daughter-in-law, the lovely Charlotte of Navarre, is within weeks of delivering him a further grandchild, the papal lawyers are working on the bull which will recognise Giulia Farnese’s young son as his own, and though the politics behind their union may be fragile, these lovebirds at the table will surely make another boy soon enough. A new generation of Borgias. There will be titles for all of them. He has already stripped the Gaetani family of their castles to the south of Rome, on the excuse of their support for Naples, selling the lands to Lucrezia at a knock-down price so that she in turn can pass them on to her son. The Colonna with their flip-flop loyalty will be next, and then, when he is no longer in need of their soldiers, the Orsini themselves. With France behind Cesare’s conquests, all who dare oppose them will go the same way. It is the moment he has worked towards his whole life.

Ah yes, this new grandfather with a warrior hero for a son is the happiest of men. Across the table Lucrezia smiles back at him. Please God let him stay that way.