Blood & Beauty The Borgias

Chapter 8



‘Papà says it’s all harmless. That Juan and Prince Djem are like actors in theatre and that Rome loves theatre. But you know there are dreadful tales about that man. Once, apparently, when his servant dropped something he had his hand cut off!’ Lucrezia shivers with shocked delight at the thought.

She is particularly joyful these days, since she has not only her father but also her big brother to care for her. Today it is her turn to visit Cesare in his home in Trastevere. While not as grand as Cardinal Zeno’s palace, it is fine enough for a rich cleric, with a frieze of painted cherubs running below the receiving-room ceiling and the terracotta floor laid in perfect herringbone, as smooth on the feet as it is warm on the eye.

‘It may just be gossip, of course.’ She shrugs. ‘How would I know? I’ve never been allowed to meet him.’

She sits, back straight, hands curled in her lap, aware of her grown-upness.

‘You should keep it that way,’ Cesare says with mock-sternness. ‘The man is a drunkard and a murderer.’

Ah, how his little sister has changed in the time he has been away, the line from girl to young woman crossed in her wardrobe as well as her attitude. The dress she wears today is cream and gold brocade, delicate flower shapes picked out within the weave, gathered under a high waist and dissolving into a waterfall of the tiniest pleats, the wonder of fashion defying the weight of cloth. Above, her breasts are now encouraged upwards, glimpsed over the top of the constructed fabric fortress that holds them in place. Her hair, brushed till it shines, is caught in a half-garland, from where it flows down her back. There is even something about her smell that is different, a certain ripening within the perfume. Cesare does not like to think that others might have become aware of it before him.

‘You know his story, yes?’

‘Of course. He is the brother of the Sultan.’ She waves her hand airily, the young coquette courtier. Then sighs. ‘But that’s all I know. Don’t look at me like that, Cesare. I could go hoarse from asking about some things. Adriana tells me it is none of my business. Everyone treats me like a child. Which I am not any more.’

‘No. You are not. And now I am home I will make sure they all know it.’

‘Oooh, I have missed you, brother.’

It is true for him also. Though the feelings it brings are not entirely comfortable.

‘So. When the last Sultan died, there was a war of accession between Djem and his brother. Djem raised an army in Egypt and when he was defeated, he went to the Knights of Malta in Rhodes, asking them to back him in his revolt. But they betrayed him and he ended up their prisoner, paid for by his brother.Then he was transferred to Rome. It is a perfect piece of diplomacy. The new sultan remains in our debt and Djem languishes in silken imprisonment in the Vatican palace.’

‘His own brother pays us to keep him? Surely we should try and convert him. That would send out a message to the infidels.’

‘No. The man is too corrupt for that. Though you might manage it, perhaps. You still pray for me, I hope.’

‘Every day.’ She wrinkles her nose, and the child he grew up with, sweet and serious by degrees, is back again. ‘Sometimes twice, to make up for the times you forget.’

He laughs. ‘Then I am safe indeed.’

‘For you do forget, yes?’

He pretends to think about it.

‘Oh, Cesare. You may have all the wonders on earth, but without Him in your heart—’

‘I will have to make do with my sister.’ He sits looking at her. God damn this. It is like giving Venus to a blind man. ‘So – if you can bear to carry all those skirts around with you, I have something to show you.’

She rises up with recently practised grace, putting her hand on his offered arm. They take the stone staircase with its graceful low treads (he rides his horse up and down them for sport) into the back courtyard, where there is a newly planted grotto, with a few trees and a seat. Close by on a plinth a sculpted naked boy child lies sleeping, one plump arm thrown out in abandonment, his young flesh sinking into a pliant bed of stone.

‘Oh brother, what a sweet thing!’

‘You know who he is? Look closer.’

And as she does she sees the patterns of feathered wings spreading out like a pillow behind his back. ‘The god of love! Cupid. Oh, but he looks so real.’ She runs her fingers down his shoulder on to his creamy stone chest. ‘Where does he come from? Is he out of the ruins?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘You must have paid a lot for him. Aunt Adriana says men are mad for such statues these days. I didn’t think you cared for such things!’

‘I don’t, usually. How old do you think he is?’

‘As ancient as Rome, at least.’

‘Wrong. He is younger than you.’

‘No!’

‘Oh yes. Our little Cupid here is a fake.’

‘But… but he is so beautiful.’ Her eyes grow wide with the news. ‘And the stone seems so – so old and grainy. As if it had been in the earth for ages.’

‘Rubbed down with a solution of acid and rolled in the dirt more like.’

‘Who would do such a thing?’

‘A young Florentine artist, apparently. With as sharp an eye for business as he has a hand for sculpture. You are not the only one to be fooled. A certain cardinal who should know better paid a small fortune for him. When he found out he’d been swindled he demanded his money back from the dealer. So I bought him instead. The work of a man cunning enough to fool half of Rome deserves to be celebrated.’

She stares down at the melting stone flesh. ‘I think it doesn’t matter how old he is. He is so lovely. Look how deeply he sleeps.’

‘Exhausted from all the havoc he has caused, no doubt.’ He slides his hand down the body to where the boy’s penis lies curled, a small slug nestled between tender stone balls. ‘But you, I think, have yet to feel Cupid’s arrows, little sister? Despite this “courtship” of yours.’

She gives him a shy smile, the colour rising in her cheeks. Since the conversation with her father in the chapel months before, her life has been moving so fast that it is sometimes hard to tell excitement from dizziness.

‘Well, am I right?’

‘Oh, Cesare, I have not even seen a portrait of him.’ She sinks down on to the seat, her skirts spreading around her. ‘What do you know about him, this Giovanni Sforza? Papà says he is a man of substance and civility. Do you think I will like him?’

‘You do not have to like him,’ he says curtly.

‘How can you say that? We are already betrothed! The wedding is in less than a month!’

‘But there will be no consummation.’

‘No… not immediately.’ She blushes again. ‘But one cannot be married for long and not sleep with one’s husband.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. There are others around who do it,’ he says drily.

And now they both laugh.

‘She is so lovely, yes?’

‘Not as lovely as you.’

‘Cesare! I was talking about the baby.’ There is a pause. ‘I know what you think of Giulia. Don’t stare at me like that. It is not so hard. I saw how you looked at her when you visited.’

It had been a difficult encounter. Arriving laden with presents for his sister, no one had stopped him, nor thought – or perhaps had the courage – to prepare him for what he would find. It was his first visit to their home in the palazzo of Santa Maria in Portico and he had found the family all together. As luck would have it, it had been the day when Giulia washed her hair, and as befits such a mammoth undertaking the room was full of it, stretched out over the backs of two chairs as she sat, regal in her posture, the newborn baby in its crib next to her, Adriana nearby and wet-nurses hovering in the background.

No one had said anything to him about a child until he had arrived in Rome and his father had broken the news. The fact that Pedro had not sniffed it out was not something he could be blamed for. On the contrary, it was proof of how his father’s strategies of containment and privacy had worked, though Cesare still feels cheated not to have been told earlier. Well, in the end it is not of great importance. A baby girl means nothing but an expensive marriage fifteen years down the line. No threat there.

He had been courteous, but had taken no interest in the child. Giulia could barely hold his eye. She was, if anything, more beautiful, her body more rounded and womanly after the birth and her face radiant. She had entered his father’s life when he was away studying and they had met only twice before. If she had been any other young woman he would have bedded her long ago. But there is something in this recent fecundity that almost disgusts him now, makes him angry in a way he does not understand. She had felt it faster than he did, and as soon as it was polite had excused herself, and she, the baby, the wet-nurses and her endless, endless hair had gone to another part of the palace, so that brother and sister could be alone together.

‘She is not my mother,’ he mutters angrily.

‘No. She is loving and kind to Papà.’ Lucrezia thinks of the animal sounds in the night. ‘And he to her. It is not as everyone thinks.’

‘Ah, Lucrezia, the world would be a lesser place if you thought as everyone else did.’

‘I mean it. She makes him happy.’

‘I mean it too. You are a loyal and loving daughter. And sister.’

‘Oh, Cesare,’ she laughs in delight, reaching over and taking his hand, ‘I hope my husband is as fine and handsome as you.’

‘Such a thing would be impossible.’ He flips her hand over in his, spreading her fingers out to expose her palm. ‘See? It is written here. “Not as handsome as your brother”.’ He moves his finger over her skin. ‘Ah! But I also see that he is not the only husband you might have. And here, here is your life line. I can even see when you will die.’

‘No! You can really see all that? When, when will it be?’

He pulls her hand closer, his fingers running over the mound near her thumb and up towards the underside of her wrist where the skin is almost translucent. She shivers under the caress. ‘Not for a long time.’

‘And how many husbands?’ she says eagerly.

‘Oh, three, maybe four.’ He looks up at her and her eyes are bright with affection. ‘But you will never love them as much as you love me. For we are bound in blood and no man can come as close.’ He grins. ‘Nor be as handsome.’

‘That is not how a good courtier should talk!’ she laughs, pulling her hand back as if he might be hurting her. ‘You should keep such dark magic to yourself.’

‘It is no darker than looking for your husband’s face in a pail of water.’

‘Who told you about that?’

‘I know everything about you, remember. You are my sister.’

‘Well, you had better be careful then. For I am sure I have some secrets about you.’ She grins and for a moment they are almost children again, unperturbed by the gravity of the world around them.

‘Papà says that I will marry in the newly decorated chambers of the Vatican palace,’ she says at last. ‘Imagine that. With our pictures on the wall. Though I am not sure they will be finished in time. Johannes Burchard is arranging it all.’ She makes a face. ‘He reminds me of a toad.’

‘Too thin. He is more a lizard. Those flaps under his chin.’

She giggles. ‘And the eyes.’ She flicks her own back and forwards, cold, blinking. She pauses. ‘You know that Juan is to give me away.’

No, he did not know this. She can see it in the way he freezes slightly.

‘But I will dance with you first,’ she says fiercely. ‘Well, after my husband.’

Across the courtyard, the figure of Michelotto appears, his ravaged face sitting uncomfortably against the smooth velvet of his doublet. ‘My Lady Lucrezia.’ He bows low before her. She nods, dropping her eyes immediately.

‘Your Excellency,’ he says with exaggerated formality. ‘There is a messenger arrived from Mantua. With news of the horses you ordered.’

‘As you see, I am busy. Tell him to wait.’

He gives another flourishing bow towards Lucrezia, but she still does not look up. After he has gone she sits frowning, picking anxiously at the weave of her dress, a gesture of the young girl she has not yet quite left behind.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. I – I just did not think that man would come to Rome with you now you are so elevated.’ She sighs. ‘He sends shivers through me. He feels… I don’t know… so cruel.’

‘Not as cruel as the man who made him look like that. Michelotto is my bodyguard now. He goes everywhere with me.’

‘Well, I would prefer it if he did not come to my wedding,’ she says impetuously. ‘I think such an angry face would not be a good omen for my future.’

‘In which case you shall not see him there.’ He pauses. ‘Little sister, you are not to worry about this marriage. If he does anything to displease you…’

‘Oh, Cesare.’ She shakes her head. ‘We are not children any more. You cannot fight them all.’

‘No? I would not be so sure.’