Blood & Beauty (13 page)

‘I – I am fine,’ she says. Then with mock-sternness: ‘You have been most remiss in not visiting.’

He shrugs. ‘I have been busy with Church affairs.’ He glances across the room to where Giovanni sits, intent in conversation. ‘So, you are properly married.’

‘Yes.’

His gaze slips back towards her husband. As if feeling it, Giovanni now turns and their eyes meet.

‘And… he does nothing to displease you?’ He looks back at her.

‘No… no.’ She drops her eyes. His hand stays in place so that she cannot move away.

‘Cesare?’ She looks up again. ‘Everything is as it should be. He is my husband. You don’t need to worry.’ She takes his hand off her arm and squeezes it, giving him a bright smile. It is as if she is helping him. ‘Come and sit with us.’

‘In a while, perhaps. I have business with some of the men here.’

At the other end of the room, Adriana has been watching the encounter. For over ten years she has done her best to care for all of her cousin’s children. Cesare, though, she has never understood. Such self-containment in a boy so young made her nervous. It seemed as if he cared for no one and nothing. Except perhaps his sister. With her he had always been different.

‘Cesare,’ Adriana says to him later, when their paths cross after dinner. ‘You do not need to be worried on Lucrezia’s account. You know I will always look after her.’

‘What? Like you looked after your own son?’

Inside the Vatican, the great diplomatic game now unfolds just as Alexander predicted it.

No sooner is Ferrante’s body under marble than the Neapolitan envoys start to arrive. Alexander sits in his receiving-room, listening with studied concentration. Each one brings a further communication from Alfonso, Ferrante’s son, the heir apparent. He is, as ever, the Pope’s most humble servant. He is also filled with generosity and largesse, eager to unload all manner of titles and lands on his putative son-in-law Jofré and his brothers. All he wants in return is a date for his coronation. After a while the tone grows desperate.

France, for her part, is equally solicitous. Or some might say duplicitous. The real business is not invasion, no! Perish the thought. Rather it is a crusade against the infidels, with Naples a necessary staging-post on the way east. How could the Pope not support such a godly mission? Alexander has trouble keeping a straight face as they talk. But it is serious enough underneath and there are times when Vatican officials have to police the flow in the antechambers; when states are on the verge of war, it is important for the ambassadors to remain above the fray.

For the first weeks Alexander is beside himself with the pleasure of it all: to be so courted, so tempted and cajoled. He has waited a long time for such power. But he is not so dazzled that he does not see the deeper significance of what is happening, and by early spring the balancing act can no longer be sustained. His choice is stark. Either he agrees to Alfonso’s coronation and offends Milan, or he cuts off Naples and feeds it to the French. He spends the night in prayer. God’s voice, through the intercession of the Blessed Virgin, tells him what the politician in him already knows: that whatever he might stand to gain from playing one against the other, the prospect of a foreign army marching through Italy can bring only instability and devastation in its wake for all. He is, it seems, the Church’s shepherd after all.

He calls for Burchard. After an hour in his company, the long-suffering Master of Ceremonies retires to his book-lined office to start work choreographing another challenging ceremony on the Pope’s behalf: this time the investiture of Alfonso as ruler of Naples, followed swiftly by the official marriage of the new king’s daughter, Sancia, to the Pope’s youngest son. The Neapolitan ambassador is informed that afternoon, but is told to keep his glee to himself for a few days.

Next morning Alexander dispatches a golden rose to the King of France.

‘It has been newly blessed by my own hand this Laetare Sunday,’ he says as he hands the fat golden stalk with its elaborate gold sculpted blossoms to the French ambassador. ‘As a symbol of our dear Lord’s majesty beyond the agony of the cross, it is the greatest gift we can bestow on a ruler whose friendship we so much value, for it speaks of union and love. You will note the wondrous art of construction in the top rose. When His Majesty holds it in his hand he can open the blossom to smell the balm and balsam that was poured in, once again by my own hand.’

The ambassador, who knows exactly what is going on, takes the rose and flips the lid off the top of the bud. His nose lifts high into the air; but whether this is the impact of the perfume or a show of diplomatic disdain it is hard to tell. Alexander’s smile grows wider at the sight.

By the end of the week the news is everywhere and, in his palace next to the Vatican, Giovanni is starting to feel familiar stomach pains. He seeks an audience with his father-in-law.

‘Are you happy with my daughter?’ Alexander purrs menacingly. While he has been expecting him, he is impatient: he does not need this nervous minnow clouding up the water, when the lake is so full of sharks.

‘Oh yes, Your Holiness. Most happy. However, I am wondering… ’

‘What? Tell me.’

‘Well, it seems that relations with my… my family… are not so easy now.’

‘Your family? But you are graciously accepted into ours now.’

He hesitates ‘Yes… only—’

‘Only what?’

‘I am a paid officer in the army of Milan.’

‘Ah, you are right. How clever of you to remind me.’ He smiles. If Giovanni knew him better he would read the signs. ‘I will look into a post for you within the papal forces, as befits your considerable expertise in military matters. It will come with a salary, of course.’

‘No, no. That is not it.’

The Pope pauses. ‘Then what is it, dear son-in-law?’

‘I… I am wondering what will happen in the future.’

‘The future? Of course. It is frustrating. I may be God’s vicar on earth but even I cannot see what is not yet come. We shall just have to pray and await it together.’ He is no longer smiling. ‘So? Was there anything else?’

Giovanni opens his mouth, but in his gut the biting starts.

‘Er… no… Not as such.’

‘Then I expect my dear Lucrezia would like you back for the evening.’

After he goes Alexander sits for a moment. What a sniveller the man has turned out to be. He never liked him, and it is clear the marriage has brought his daughter no pleasure, which in turn brings him pain. But until they have negotiated the political rapids to come there is nothing he can do.

Easter week arrives, unseasonably cold, and Alexander puts on his ceremonial robes and leads his city in mourning and then jubilation. During the processions through the streets he is tireless, making sure to greet and talk to many in the crowd. His head may be full of politics, but he understands the need for the shepherd to be with his flock.

On Good Friday he and the dignitaries of Church and state attend a Passion play inside the ancient Colosseum. The spectacle is a recent addition to the religious calendar and everyone in Rome, rich and poor, is entranced by it. The cast is huge, with young nobles of the great families dressed in Roman costume competing to take part, playing soldiers and citizens of Jerusalem. It begins in daylight, the great amphitheatre packed with spectators, and ends with a man strapped to a cross in the middle of the arena as the sun goes down and the torches flare up. To relive the suffering of Our Lord in a place where the very first martyrs gave up their blood for the faith offers a double poignancy, and in the papal box, where the Pope sits with his entourage, as comfortable as any emperor, it is Alexander himself who leads the weeping. The sound of moaning and crying spreads out in waves through the audience. The emotion leaks out on to the street and that night there are incidents in the Jewish Quarter, gangs of young Christian men wreaking vengeance for the crimes of ancestors. Eventually Alexander sends in the papal guard to restore order, but he understands better than most what is happening here. When there is fear about the future, it is comforting to take it out on outsiders who can be blamed for the past.

From unsettled, the weather becomes downright fractious. Amid torrential rain, Burchard leaves Rome for the hazards of the road. Jofré and a bedraggled wedding party follow. In lieu of the Pope himself, the investiture will be done by his cousin, Cardinal Juan Borgia Lanzo. There is nothing to be gained from being coy: Naples is now a family affair.

The rain and storms follow them south, making mudslides of the roads and prolonging the journey. Alexander paces his chambers, waiting. Eventually news comes that the deed is done. Alfonso, having bowed to every demand, including total fealty to the papacy, is crowned King, and Jofré and Sancia are man and wife.

Alexander’s delight is muted by reading a further, secret dispatch that arrives soon after. While the lovely Sancia was duly impressed by the trunks of clothes and gems that were flung open in front of her, it appears that she hadn’t bothered to conceal her disappointment with the pimply adolescent who brought them. It was common court gossip that there was only one virgin in the couple’s marriage bed that night, and that young Jofré had found the whole thing so overwhelming that he cried like the twelve-year-old child he still is. When he reads this the Pope has tears of fury in his eyes. Well, such humiliation will cost Naples dear. Both Jofré and Juan are now lords of large territorial lands inside the state, while Cesare is showered with new benefices. One way or another, the union between the two families is satisfactorily consummated.

Cardinal della Rovere, who has effectively removed himself from Rome by retreating to his coastal fortress at Ostia, now uses this moment to set sail for France. It is a clear sign of brewing rebellion from inside the Church. In Paris he is welcomed by the pin-headed king, Charles VIII. Like many young monarchs he is attracted to the glamour of war, though he is also fond of his court comforts and the Alps are a strenuous climb even if one is being carried.

The king and the cardinal spend days closeted together, della Rovere eloquent on the wonders of making history and the glory of pleasing God in the process. At times he grows so excited that his arguments seep out of the palace to the world beyond

When the messengers arrive back in Rome, no one, not even Cesare, goes into the Pope’s chambers for a while. The essence of della Rovere’s attack is personal: accusations against the character of Alexander, the corruption of the Holy See, and the pressing need for a great council of reform.

The battle for Naples is becoming a battle for the future of the papacy itself.

Wet spring turns to boiling summer. The Pope and Cesare meet with King Alfonso and his generals and agree a strategy for the defeat of the foreign enemy. It would be more convincing if their alliance were not so isolated. The Venetian ambassador offers fighting talk but everyone – including Milan – knows that it will never lead to action. Venice did not gain an empire on the seas by wasting her money fighting for land that she has no interest in owning. Meanwhile, worse is happening in Florence, where the Medici are losing their grip on the city thanks to a mad Dominican monk whose sermons pour rivers of hot lava down onto both Pope and government, prophesying the cleansing of Italy through the might of a foreign sword. In Rome many of Alexander’s own cardinals now find it safer to express their opinions on the matter only to God. Uncertainty is more contagious than the plague.

Cesare, in contrast, believes in strategy, not prayer. He knows he is his father’s closest adviser and, as family, the only one he really trusts. In private, he rails against the impotency of a papacy which owns chunks of central Italy but rents it out for pin-money to half-baked tyrants and imbeciles with as much loyalty as a sack of rats. Had his father been Pope for longer… Had he not been forced to spend his life in church… Next time… If there is to be a next time.

For once in his life Giovanni Sforza, one of those same half-baked tyrants and imbeciles, manages to translate his churning bowels into political strategy. It is possibly his finest hour.

‘I understand how deeply preoccupied you are, Your Holiness, but as I’m sure you know, summer fever is on the move again through the city.’

‘And you’re worried you might catch it,’ Cesare murmurs sweetly from his chair at the side of the room.

‘My worry is not for myself, but for your sister, my beloved wife,’ he replies firmly, ignoring the sarcasm. If he turns his head sharply enough towards the Pope he can cut Cesare out of his vision altogether. ‘I have to tell you one of the servants in the palace has been taken ill with it.’

‘When?’ Alexander, who has not had the time to visit either of his favourite women for a while now, is immediately anxious. Roman fever can kill within the time it takes a doctor to find his way to a house.

‘A few days ago.’

‘I should have been told!’ he roars. ‘Why was I not told? He or she must be expelled and my daughter and her women need to leave the city.’

‘It is already seen to. The servant is gone and the packing is begun. The only question is where, given the… the situation.’ He pauses, but not long enough for Cesare to interrupt. ‘I have what I believe is the answer, Your Holiness. With your permission I will take my wife to Pesaro. It has a good climate, healthier than Rome, and it has been a year since she became the duchess, so her formal introduction to her city is long overdue.’

‘Pesaro? How long would you stay?

‘I had thought perhaps, until things become… well, quieter here. She will enjoy the city and its people. As they will her, I am sure. And as the duke I would be remiss in my duty to delay their meeting any longer.’

‘And what about your duty to the Pope whose state you govern on his behalf?’ retorts Cesare. ‘Or are you perhaps planning to spend half your time in Milan?’

Alexander throws his son a sharp glance. You are not needed in this conversation, it says.

Giovanni sees it, and slips in fast. ‘I am not speaking of myself, you understand, only my wife,’ he says, again addressing only the Pope. ‘I shall escort her, settle her in and, of course, return if and when you need me to serve in my military capacity. Meanwhile the duchess and her household will remain safe, healthy and protected for as long as they wish.’

There is a small silence in the room.

‘And my daughter is aware of this plan, yes?’

Giovanni is so pleased now he cannot help beaming.

‘Oh yes, Your Holiness, she certainly is. And excited too. I think you will find she is as eager to meet her subjects as they are to meet her.’

‘It seems my son-in-law has balls after all.’

‘I look forward to cutting them off. Did you see him sweating? Sweet Jesus, I think—’

‘I know what you think, Cesare. And so does he now, if he was ever in any doubt. What is wrong with you? We do not speak of anything that affects our security outside of the family, you know that.’

‘I’m sorry. I lost my temper.’

‘So I see. Yet he is no more a fool than many others that you manage to keep it with.’

‘He is a fool who is husband to my sister.’

‘Ha…’ Alexander smiles grimly. ‘Yes, that is one thing you were right about. I should have married her elsewhere.’

‘So put him on the battlefield. I promise you he won’t survive it.’

‘No,’ he says sharply. ‘It is not the right moment.’ He stares at him. There are things growing in his son that he does not recognise, things he has never taught him. ‘One enemy at a time, Cesare. One enemy at a time.’