PART IX
A Family Sacrifice
In the palace there is such envy and so many hatreds, old and new, that such scandal must needs occur.
FRANCESCO CAPPELLO, FLORENTINE AMBASSADOR, ROME, AUGUST 1500
Chapter 50
In his rooms above the Borgia apartments, Cesare the soldier is missing camp life. His temper frays easily and his moods shift like the weather. He cannot sleep: either his chamber is too hot or the bed is too soft. He douses the fire, wraps himself in his battle cloak and has the mattress transferred to the floor. He lives for the writing and reading of dispatches; detailed daily reports from Imola and Forlì left in the care of one of his Spanish captains, Ramiro de Lorqua – fashioning a new government is a full-time job – or the latest news from the French army, currently cutting a violent swathe in forced march into Lombardy and on to Milan. Ludovico Sforza is poised to retake his old city. Cesare and Michelotto stay up long into the night discussing strategies, imagining the confrontation to come.
Meanwhile, the queue of servants bearing invitations is growing embarrassingly long. If the duke could see fit to find the time…
‘Venice and Ferrara I’ll see. The rest can wait.’
‘There is a further invitation from your sister, the Duchess of Bisceglie.’
‘Lucrezia, or her husband as well?’
Michelotto shrugs. ‘I don’t see how you can avoid him for ever.’
‘Why not?’ he growls. ‘I have shaken his hand. What more does he want?’
On the morning of the parade, Alfonso had dressed and left their palazzo before dawn.
‘Why, Duke Bisceglie, I do believe you are the most handsome man in all of Rome.’ Lucrezia, shivering in her nightrobes, had insisted on getting up with him.
‘Not more handsome than your brother, I hope? Nobody must outshine him today. You had better rub some ash into my robes, or break a few of my cap feathers.’
‘It would do no good. It is your face that gives you away.’
‘Then I’ll wear an eyepatch.’ They had laughed as he embraced her. ‘I have to go,’ he said after a while. ‘It would not do to be late.’ But she won’t release him. ‘It is just a parade, Lucrezia. I will be back.’
‘I know, I know.’ She had made her voice gay. ‘What will you say to him?’
‘I shall congratulate him on his brilliance as a soldier and a leader. And he will thank me. Because he will know that I am being sincere.’
And so it had been. The two men had met in hazy first light as the horses were saddled and the grooms and mace bearers gathered, smoothing down their doublets and sticking out their chests so the name of Caesar could be read more easily. There had been a firm handshake, a few words and a fast embrace, as if both men feared they might catch something from the other. They were saved from further intimacy by the arrival of Jofré, like an over-excited puppy whose master has just come home.
‘… Ah, the way you took the fortress of Imola… and the bombard of Forlì – so clever, just the right number of guns. And the right strategy…’ He blathered on for a while. ‘Those poxy French. But you’ll have Pesaro soon enough. And Rimini. I shall help you this time. We just need to persuade Father. I could be your second-in-command. I have decided every battle move ahead with you. Sancia will tell you. What was she like? Tell me.’
‘Who?’ Cesare had allowed himself to be amused.
‘The Virago Sforza, of course. Did you bed her? Yes, yes, of course you did. How many times? Did she fight you very hard?’
To shut him up, Cesare had shot out a hand and grabbed him round the neck, pulling him into a headlock the way he used to when they wrestled together.
‘This is what I did to her,’ he said as the young man yelped indignantly. ‘And then I did this.’ He used his other hand to grab at Jofré’s codpiece under his doublet. ‘And guess what I discovered, brother? Her balls were bigger than yours. Ah, my baby brother, the warrior!’ he had yelled, releasing him and lifting up his hand high for all to see. ‘Now get on your horse. And don’t fall off. If you are very good I’ll arrange for you to visit her yourself.’
But in fact it had been Caterina Sforza who had had the last word.
This splendid horsewoman, who had dispatched her best animals to Mantua rather than have them fall into the hands of her enemy, had suffered the indignity of crossing the Apennines in a supply cart. Yet she had still found ways to look her best when, as his prisoner, she had followed Cesare into the frescoed Room of the Consistories, where the Pope sat enthroned ready to receive them.
The Holy Father of all Christendom. But also a ridiculously proud father.
Cesare had barely brought his lips to the Pope’s feet before Alexander was leaping up, gathering him to his chest, laughing and chattering in effusive Catalán. On this, one of the most triumphant days of his life, how could he not show beneficence to such a fine-looking woman whose defeat had been their glory?
‘I give myself into your hands, Holy Father,’ she had said, her voice low and thrilling. ‘Duke Valentino is a warrior with the power of the ancients. I have met no man like him.’
In that moment, dead soldiers, broken promises, threats and poisoned shrouds were all lost in the pleasure of watching a lovely woman, with milk white breasts propelled upwards from a tight bodice, sinking into a deep curtsey at his feet.
‘You are right. And only such a man could defeat a warrior like yourself. Welcome to Rome, Caterina Sforza.’
Behind him, Cesare growled softly.
‘You are our guest as well as our prisoner and you shall stay in the Belvedere Palace in my own gardens. There will be rooms made ready for you.’
As the guards stepped forward to accompany her, she moved past Cesare, a quiet but unmistakable smile on her face.
‘Not everyone approves of the idea of war against a woman. We will win more support with magnanimity than revenge now.’
‘Except it’s not finished. She must renounce her claim on behalf of her children, and living in luxury gives her no incentive to do it.’
Amid the madness of celebrations, it is days before father and son find themselves properly alone together.
‘So, we will use the threat of the dungeons to persuade her. By then she will be forgotten anyway. Come, let us not argue over details. You have made me the happiest man in Christendom. Tell me, what can this loving father give you in return, oh Duke of half of Romagna?’
‘The means to take the other half.’
‘Ah, you are on fire still.’ Alexander beams with delight. ‘And you shall have it. You will be Gonfaloniere and the Captain-General of the Church within the month. Burchard is already drawing up the papers.’
‘And the army to go with it? We need to raise more soldiers and artillery.’
‘I know. But we have time.’ This warrior son of his is so impatient. ‘Nothing can be done until Milan is settled.’
‘No. That is the whole problem, Father. As long as we depend on the French, we are not in command of our own destiny. I know that now. I tell you, for this to work we need our own army made up of our own mercenaries. Spanish if possible, so their loyalty is set. The rest we can draw from inside the Romagna.’
‘What about Vitelli, the Orsini and the others? They fought well for you.’
‘Well enough. But at root they are like everyone else. Their first loyalty is to themselves. And if we are successful in the taking of the cities – and we will be – eventually we will be looking at theirs too. The Orsini won’t know what’s hit them.’
‘Ah – listen to the ambition!’ He has been waiting for this moment for months; to taste the victory and make it his own. ‘I believe war has changed you. Even your face is more soldier than courtier. You know, when I was young, I used to look a little like you. Gladiator chest and shoulders. Ah, how women love a warrior. Sweet Mother of God, we are a family to be proud of, with such triumph to celebrate.’
‘So when do we start?’
‘Start what?’
‘Recruiting. It is the perfect time.’ Cesare gestures to the window. ‘Half of Europe is pouring tribute into the Church.’
‘What? You are Pope as well as Captain-General now?’ he laughs. ‘I should remind you there are a few other… meagre demands on the papacy. Venice is calling for a crusade: pirate infidels are plundering her ships halfway to the Indies.’
‘Then we can use the demand to make her give us something in return.’
‘You think I am not working on it already? By the time you are back on the road she will have withdrawn all support from the cities of the Romagna. Aaah! You young pups think it is all done with clashing steel and boom-bard cannonballs. The battles I fight here demand at least as much strategy. Now do me the favour to stop pacing like a wolf in the forest and relax for a moment. Sit, will you!’
Cesare does as he is told, finding his old chair and throwing his body into it, his feet sprawled halfway across the arms.
‘I hear that there is a most lovely courtesan in Rome who has a parrot that swears in Latin. And that the same bird squawks your name while its mistress is busy murmuring other men’s. I wonder who gave her that?’
‘Father, we are talking of armies, not women.’
‘No. We are talking of life.’ The Pope sighs, as if giving up on him. ‘Or have you given up everything for war? Maybe it is the Virago who changed you. Wore you out, perhaps. My – you have no idea what stories reached us here.’
‘Gossip is not truth,’ Cesare says baldly. He has felt a recurring disgust at the memory of the encounter, not all of it directed towards her. Yes, it is true that he had caught a glimpse of Fiammetta at her window as they paraded past. But by the time he crossed the bridge he had forgotten her again. If he dwelt on it, he too might find it strange, how inside all this driving energy of victory there has been little obvious sexual desire. At times he has found his thoughts turning more to his modest, pliant wife, now fat with child. Her expressed delight at the Venetian silks and glass that he has sent to her speaks of different affection; a fondness born of admiration rather than lust. It is a long time since he has felt such female warmth inside his blood family.
‘What about my sister?’ he says sharply. ‘Is she still besotted with Naples?’
‘She is happy, yes, and in great excitement at your return.’ Alexander, as always, lies with admirable gusto.
‘And our traitor in-laws, the Aragonese? How are they?’
‘Ah, my son, don’t be so harsh. Their name is as much a burden to them as it is to us.’
‘Nevertheless, we—’
‘And before you say more.’ He talks over him now, his voice more forceful. ‘Until Milan is taken and there is an army heading for Naples that matter will not be spoken of between us. We shall enjoy a little harmony alongside the fruits of victory. Is that understood?’
Cesare bows his head in obedience.
‘Good. Since you are more interested in work than diversion, let us talk cardinals. Four deaths mean four vacancies in the college, but since there are at least two dozen contenders with open purses, perhaps we might appoint more. A few fellow Spaniards will work well for our future. You can start to pay for your army from there. I shall send you a list. And now we shall drink wine and play at war, you and I. You will show me how you took Forlì. I have had them put extra condiments on the table and a set of new silver French forks so we will have enough to designate each part of the army. See… just like it was all those years ago in the Palazzo Borgia. Ah, what a journey it has been.’
And as he says it two fat tears of joy start their way up and over the flesh foothills of his craggy cheeks. What depth of fatherly love. Impossible to resist. As the two men settle over the mustard pots, forks and pasta spoons, with the south wall of the fortress of Forlì a thick napkin propped against a goblet, a spike of pain shoots up through Cesare’s leg, deep into his groin. It is the second time in a week that he has felt it. God’s wounds, he thinks. Not again. Not now.
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