Blood & Beauty (22 page)

Except those who love him most. It is Calderón who is given the further honour of taking and receiving news from the front line. When it reaches as far as Virginio Orsini’s sister, besieged in the castle, she stands out on the battlement overlooking the lake, weeping and laughing into the wind. For months she has been plagued by images of a man dying inch by slow inch in a dank pit where daylight never reaches. Revenge is a better weapon than anxiety and she will sleep more deeply now, despite the sound of cannon fire in her ears.

In Umbria, where Orsini’s illegitimate son Carlo is trying to raise a force to break the siege, fury and grief add urgency to his cause. Using money from the French purse, he buys two of Italy’s most effective professional condottieri – one of the brawling Baglioni brothers from Perugia, and Vitellozzo Vitelli, a commander who knows a thing or two about artillery. It is hardly a great army, but its arrival to the west of the lake draws the papal troops away from the siege of Bracciano to meet them on the slopes of Monte Cimone. The military talents of the Duke of Gandia are about to be tested.

As the messenger, it’s Calderón’s job to ride, not fight, but the sight of the carnage and the wounded has its impact and when he mounts his horse to take the news to Rome he is shaking. In case of bad news Cesare had ordered that he comes to him first.

He listens grimly.

‘What should I tell His Holiness?’

‘Just what you have told me.’

Alexander is at private prayer in the Niccoline Chapel, its warmth and intimacy more inviting than the great emptiness of the Sistine. Since Juan’s departure he has found himself drawn to it regularly.

‘Father?’

As he registers Cesare’s presence behind him he feels a wave of cold shock run through his body.

In the stateroom outside, Pedro Calderón, dishevelled and distraught, is already on his knees.

‘What? What is it? Tell me.’

Calderón glances at Cesare, who nods.

‘Holy Father, the news is not good. We have lost the field to the Orsini.’

‘Lost? How badly lost? What about Juan, the Captain-General of the Church?’

‘He… he is taken wounded. There is no danger… the doctors say he will live. I made sure of that before I left. He is making his way to Rome now, but he sent me on ahead to let you know that he has withdrawn from battle.’

‘What of the Duke of Urbino? Is he withdrawn too?’

‘The Duke was captured early in the battle, Your Holiness. Orsini’s son holds him now for ransom.’

‘Ah! God’s wounds. How could this happen? We had them at our mercy. Aah! How many? How many did we lose?’

‘Five, six hundred dead, maybe three times that many wounded.’

‘And the enemy?’

Pedro shakes his head. ‘The day went to them by more than four to one.’

Twilight comes early on winter days. The Pope sits in darkness in his bedchamber. Recently his legs have been causing him trouble. Perhaps he is not used to spending so much time on his knees. There is a long groan of pain down the side of the right calf from the knee and his foot is so swollen that it looks like a tree trunk. His bed servant massages it patiently each night with oils, but his touch tonight brought more pain than relief and he has sent him away. Sixty-six years old. What does he expect? The world is full of old men racked with aches and pains. He can still move faster in his head than many half his age, but then he also knows that the morgue is no respecter of ambition.

He does not regret the decision to have Orsini poisoned. To bring a family to its knees you have to strike at the head as well as the limbs. The man was a traitor and deserved to die. If their places had been reversed Virginio would have afforded him no better treatment. God needs a strong Church with a strong pope, and a strong pope needs a firm foundation of power. The interests of the papacy and the Borgias have been moving hand in hand for so long that he has become used to substituting one for the other: he is doing what is best for all, their survival of the French invasion has proved that. Yet the scale of this defeat and the direct attack on the body of his son gives him a moment of doubt. While he is not a man to dwell on history – the needs of the present take all his time – he finds himself thinking of Pope Sixtus, wily and pious by turns, and how his murderous attack on the Medici had ended in ignominy, the conspirators strung up and dangling from the windows of Florence’s town hall. When the news came to him of the failure, and the close escape of his own nephew, did he ever think to question whether it was God’s will or just Fortuna?

He cancels his visit to Giulia and orders a vigil in the Niccoline Chapel with a small group of cardinals in attendance. It is a long night. The stabbing up and down his right leg keeps him alert to his prayers. Cesare stands at the back and watches. He has said nothing.

Next afternoon, the Duke of Gandia arrives back, breathless with pain, in the back of a litter.

‘They had men with pikes, like the Swiss Guard. As they plunged into the cavalry a giant of a man knocked me from my horse. I thought it was my end.’

Alexander pulls his son’s head towards him and holds it to his chest. ‘You are not dead,’ he says. ‘That is all that matters.’

In the Pope’s own apartments half a dozen doctors hover as they unwind a bandage from his torso to expose a livid gash across his chest. The doctors usher Alexander from the room. When they emerge they are hard pressed to know what to say: not only is the Duke of Gandia in no immediate danger, but with the right salves he might be up and dancing within a few days, for under the blood there is nothing more than a flesh wound.

‘I told you that you should not face pikemen with cavalry,’ Cesare says quietly as father and sons sit together that evening, assessing the damage. His brother’s humiliation has left him pleasantly calm. ‘The horses are thrown by the length of the lances. I have seen it happen myself.’

‘It was not our intention to meet them that way.’ Juan rises to the bait. ‘But they outflanked us.’

‘And you didn’t think to regroup?’

‘Enough.’ Alexander looks weary. ‘What is done is done. The question is, what next?’ He glances at Cesare.

‘Without Bracciano, it is not a victory, father.’

‘But neither is it a defeat. We hold ten other castles. So we negotiate. They will pay with money rather than blood.’

‘And the Duke of Urbino?’

‘Bah! He has a town full of citizens. If they love their lord they can find the money to pay his ransom.’

‘He is highly thought of among the other princes. We will make an enemy out of an ally.’

‘Only one who can’t fight. It might teach others to do better.’

Juan has the decency to drop his head. ‘I am ready to go back into the field, Father,’ he says, wincing ostentatiously as he does so. ‘We only lost a few hundred men. I could fight again, I know.’

‘Are you sure?’

He coughs, grimacing again. ‘Yes, yes. I could do it.’

Alexander looks at Cesare again, but his elder son’s face still gives nothing away.

‘Very well… then let’s talk about Ostia.’

Ostia. A small fortress but a huge symbol, Cardinal della Rovere’s strategic castle on the mouth of the Tiber has been in French hands since he fled Italy. It is now the last bastion of their power on Italian soil. To make sure of triumph the Pope has already sent out a call for Spanish help, and a force under Gonsalvo de Córdova, who is in the south mopping up the last of the resistance, is already on its way.

‘He is the greatest general of his day, my son. With his infantry and our artillery attacking from both sides, the French don’t stand a chance. Isn’t that so, Cesare?’

‘As long as you do exactly what you are told this time, little brother,’ Cesare says, the cold smile he has been holding back breaking out at last. ‘That is all it will take.’

And so it does.

In chapel Alexander laughs and cries as he thanks the Virgin for her many intercessions on his behalf, the protecting of Juan from further injury and the fall of Ostia being only the two most recent. Any doubts he might once have had are swept away in the exhilaration of the moment. God favours those who take chances. Even his leg bothers him less as he summons Burchard to give orders for the ceremonies to follow. It is a moment he has been waiting for for a long time: the Borgias have their own military hero to celebrate.

In the Pope’s private chambers, amid cardinals and dignitaries, the veteran Gonsalvo de Córdova kneels to receive his reward: a sculpted golden rose, similar to the one given to the French just before their brush-off. Then, wreathed in smiles, the Pope turns his attention to his son, who steps up to be invested, in perpetuity, as Duke of Benevento, reigning over a newly created domain carved out of the lands recovered by Córdova around Naples.

The applause that greets the announcement is peppered by gasps of astonishment. Everyone in the room knows that the victory belongs to Córdova, not the Duke of Gandia: it is one thing for a commander to be awarded the spoils of his own campaign, quite another for them to be given to someone else.

Córdova himself shows no trace of emotion. In gnarled middle age, he is a survivor, a man who earned his spurs in the conquest of Granada, then had the wisdom to help negotiate peace. Like many Spaniards, he prides himself on being a man of honour, as fierce for God as he is for glory, and the smells of corruption that he finds wafting through the corridors of the Vatican have turned his stomach. The diplomat in him will keep his counsel till he reports back to his own monarchs. But once there he will not mince his words: the papacy may be in the hands of a Spaniard, but he is a man who cares more for his family than for the Holy Mother Church.

He is not the only one to spread the word. Over the following days ambassadors sit down to recreate the scene, commenting as they do on the emerging shape of dynastic power in Italy, with the tendrils of Borgia ownership creeping ever deeper into the kingdom of Naples. But the truly sharp-eyed will have noticed something else: that along with all the obvious suspects of the Orsini and the Colonna and the other families who are suffering from the growing power of the Borgias, there are signs of tension within the tribe itself. So that when Isabella d’Este sits at her desk in Mantua reading one of many scandal-ridden dispatches on life in Rome, she will be particularly struck by the thought that, while they may try hard to conceal it, the sons of the Pope are consumed with envy of each other.

To be lauded as a hero for a battle that everyone knows you didn’t win could be a burden as much as a triumph. Juan, however, manages to remain oblivious. Rome has become his plaything and he swaggers from one party to another, barely noticing the smirks and insults that are exchanged behind his back. Inside the Vatican the Pope is so swayed by family triumph that the politician in him is eclipsed by the besotted father.

Out on the streets, the atmosphere is strained. While Ostia was falling to the papal troops, the coffin carrying Virginio Orsini’s remains had been making its way through the capital en route to his final resting place in Bracciano and attracting a small army of angry supporters in its wake. Nightfall now sees knots of belligerent young men gathering around the piazzas in search of brawls and knife fights. Not just the Orsini. With the consolidation of Borgia power, the Colonna and the Gaetani also have their noses out of joint. The structures of family influence have been part of the make-up of Rome for centuries, and when the balance is being rocked, as it is now, Rome can become an unstable city.

Juan, meanwhile, has his attention fixed on pleasure. His greatest badge of honour is his fast-healing wound, which gives him even more reason to strip off his shirt for any lady who might take his fancy. There is an army of professionals who would probably undress him for free, such is his status, but he is looking for tougher conquests. His return to court has not gone quite as he expected, as Sancia, far from throwing herself at his feet, has had her mind on other things. In Naples, the young King, her half-brother, has died and the level of her grief surprises everyone. She has grown up a little in the last few months. Her fever for Cesare has both scorched and purged her, so that now, as she grows homesick, she find herself longing for men who, like her brother, make her feel safe rather than always on fire. As the court whirls and dances its way into summer, she retires more to her bedroom, where she and Jofré play cards or games of chance. In bed, when she is sad he is happy to stroke and cuddle her rather than play-act the rutting animal. Coming in one morning, her ladies find them curled in each other’s arms like sleeping puppies, as sweet as they are still young.

Juan, however, is not used to women refusing him. One night at dinner, he sits himself deliberately between her and Jofré. The talk grows saucy and he uses his free hand to test her resistance under her skirts. She moves herself away and he is about to persist when Jofré takes his bright silver fork, a new and fashionable weapon, more vicious in its way than the knife, and plunges it into the back of his brother’s other hand.

Juan roars with pain.

‘Oh, I am sorry! I am sorry, brother,’ Jofré yelps, ducking the return blow. ‘I was sure that was a cockroach on your plate.’

Sancia, on the other side, bursts out laughing. Juan, sensitive to anyone who mocks him, throws back his chair and leaves the table in fury.

‘Oh, my gallant knight.’ She hugs her husband, nuzzling his head to her breast. ‘You saved my virtue! What a perfect husband.’

When Cesare hears the story he cannot help but smile. He is struggling with his own furies. The injustice of his brother’s new dukedom rubs like a hair shirt. It appals him to see his father so smitten. Not that he too isn’t being favoured. A new King of Naples means another coronation, and a cardinal legate to stand in for the Pope. He is clearly too young and inexperienced in Church matters to be considered, yet Alexander has pushed his name through despite the howls of protest. While they have enough cardinals in the Sacred College to ensure any vote, even their own men are finding such blatant nepotism uncomfortable.

In response, Cesare, who is well aware of the mood in the city, has taken to keeping a low profile. When men are angry about injustice it does not help to have their noses ground in it. He would like to slam his brother up against a wall and give him some lessons on how to behave, but he is worried that if he were to start he would not know when to stop. Better to stay out of his way.

It is at this delicate moment that Giovanni arrives back in town. Vice-Chancellor Cardinal Sforza may not be the Pope’s favourite churchman, but he can catch the wind of gossip as well as the next man. If the Sforzas are not going to go the way of the Orsini, the family need this marriage to continue as much as the Pope wants to dissolve it. Under pressure from both the cardinal and Duke Ludovico, Giovanni is ordered to return to Rome to fight for his wife. By the time he gets there he has become almost immune to the rats that are gnawing at his bowels.

Alexander, who will choose his own moment to deliver the coup de grâce, welcomes him with hearty smiles and back-slaps. Giovanni has trouble not falling over.

On the way from the Vatican to his own palace he runs into the Cardinal of Valencia, who is so obviously loitering that it is clear the meeting is deliberate.

‘And what are you doing in town, traitor?’

The fear cuts through the pain so sharply that for a moment Giovanni feels almost relief. ‘I am come to see my wife.’

‘She doesn’t want to see you.’

‘How would you know that, Your Most Reverend Lord Cardinal?’

‘Because no woman wants a man who deserts her,’ he says sweetly.

But Giovanni holds his ground. They are both attended by servants and neither of them is armed. What can he do? Strangle him with his own bare hands?

‘She is still my wife. I would ask you to step out of the way. Please.’

‘Really. And what if I don’t?’

Giovanni says nothing. They both stand rigid, waiting for the other to make the first move. Then suddenly Cesare laughs and falls back.

‘You lay a hand on her and what little balls you have I’ll cut off myself,’ he says to his brother-in-law’s retreating figure.

Giovanni does not turn back.

Lucrezia is in her bedroom, curled on the window seat in golden afternoon light, working on an embroidered silk for a shawl. Like all women of her class she was trained young in needlework and has a fine eye and a steady hand. While men are called upon to decorate the walls of palaces and churches, the delicate beauty of a piece of embroidered cloth brings another, quieter kind of satisfaction to those who pour their souls into it. At times of stress it can be almost as comforting as prayer. Since the interview with her father, however, she notices that she has been making more mistakes.

‘Giovanni! What are you doing in Rome?’ Her needle freezes halfway to the outline of a rose petal. ‘This is not a place for you now.’

‘So it seems. How are you, wife?’

‘Why didn’t you send word that you were coming? I have not heard from you in months.’

‘Well… I – I did not think you cared that much.’

He looks around. He barely recognises the room, it is so long since he has been here. ‘You look well,’ he says at last. ‘How are Jofré and Sancia? I hear her half-brother is dead.’

‘Yes, and she is most affected by it. The court is not as it was. Though Juan has come home bright enough.’

‘Ah yes, the golden-boy duke. And what about us?’ He takes a step towards her and she flinches backward, the needle catching into her finger so that she gives a little cry. He stops. ‘The talk is that you are trying to slough me off.’

‘Oh, why do you pick now to come? I have been waiting for months. You didn’t answer letters. I thought… I can’t speak of this now.’

‘So it is true?’

She shakes her head.

‘Then it is not true? God in His heaven knows there is no reason that would stand up in a court, whatever they are telling you.’ He stares at her, as if trying to read what she does or doesn’t know. Sitting bathed in the light she looks lovely, so young still, even innocent. ‘Why don’t you come back with me to Pesaro, Lucrezia? We could start again. The city needs its duchess. And I need my wife.’ He can barely believe his own power. It is as if he is a player in a spectacle someone else has written.

‘I cannot, Giovanni,’ she says in a small voice. The pinprick of blood welling up on her finger drops on to the silk. A blood-red rose then. ‘Even if I wanted to. It’s too late.’

‘I have risked my life to come here. I know things between us have not always gone well. But when we were together in Pesaro we found a way to live. I remember that for a while you were almost gay there. You’re not like the rest of your family. You have kindness and love in you that they will snuff out. If they want another husband for you it has nothing to do with your happiness.’

‘Please, don’t say these things. It is not in my hands. It never has been. You should have come when they called. It is too late now. You must get your family to help you.’

‘Why? What is your father going to do? We are married, Lucrezia. Even he can’t change that.’

She shakes her head. ‘You should go home now.’

‘What?’ He looks around him, as if the danger might even be in the room. ‘Is he intending to have me cut down on the streets? Has it come to that?’

‘No, no… but… I cannot speak for my brothers. They are more hot-headed than him.’

‘You mean Cesare?’

‘Please. Go.’

‘I tell you, he is a madman, your brother. He can barely keep his hands off you. God help our Church as long as he is in it.’

She is not looking at him any more. Behind him he hears footsteps. He turns in a panic as to whom he might find there. But it is only Pantisilea, her lady-in-waiting, hovering in the background and making signs to her mistress over his head.

‘It’s all right. I am going. But I give you one piece of advice. Make sure the next husband is one you dislike even more than me. God forbid you should ruin the life of a man you really care for.’

Giovanni heads back home as fast as his horse will carry him. When his more powerful cousins demand to know why he has fled, he sends anxious, whining letters to both, hinting at dark conspiracies and insisting – from a safe distance – that he will never ever agree to give up his wife, whatever pressure is brought to bear.

His worst fears are realised when, at the end of May, the Pope dispatches no less a figure than the general of the Augustinians to Pesaro to help his son-in-law ‘understand the choices’ at his disposal. In case there should be any doubt, Alexander also lays out the terms in a meeting in Rome with the Vice-Chancellor. The Sforza/Borgia marriage is over; it would be best if his cousin agrees that it had never been valid in the first place. Otherwise they may have to resort to ‘other’ reasons: the Duchess of Pesaro, he adds darkly, is both ready and willing to sign a declaration to that effect. Should their two families not wish a further falling-out, he would urge a smooth and rapid resolution. He is, he hints with a bright smile, willing to be flexible on the return of the dowry.

Ascanio Sforza swallows his outrage. It is a taste he has grown familiar with. He knows that one way or another the Borgias will get what they want. Better for everyone if they can be persuaded to take the first course. He will get nothing out of Alexander, or his eldest son, whom he is beginning to fear as much as the Pope himself. The beloved Duke of Gandia though is easier to approach, assuming one can find a way in through the layers of preening. What is clear is how much he likes a party. So the Vice-Chancellor now goes out of his way to organise one: another celebration for the glorious hero of papal victories.

The guest list is extensive and the menu large: a man used to eating at the private dinner table of the Pope is always appreciative of more luxurious fare. The animals and birds are slaughtered on the day to ensure the freshest meats. From France comes a new recipe for calves’ kidneys mashed with eggs and spices, while another pan bubbles on the stove like boiling blood, pork juice thickened with flour and a sack of cherries. When our hero is tired of meats there will be fish, and pasta stuffed with oranges and pine nuts, ricotta tarts filled with every fruit in season, and a table of cheeses. You could eat all night and there would still be more to taste in the morning.

The company starts off as exclusive, but the word spreads and as the evening progresses there are not enough guards to see off the groups of men, clerics as well as young bloods, who find their way into the highly decorated salon and courtyard. Twilight turns to darkness and on such a sweet summer evening everyone gives way to pleasure. Juan arrives late; rumour is that he is courting a young beauty due to be married to another man, and therefore a perfect challenge to his vanity, and that he has been trying to get himself into her bedroom while her father is looking the other way. At least he enjoys the food, and the wine, which he drinks in quantity too fast to notice how much of the Vice-Chancellor’s money has been spent on it. As the hero of the moment, at least in his own mind, he does a few laps of honour around the room, receiving compliments from those alert enough to remember to pay them. The number is perhaps less than usual, but then the food is so rich that after a while it is easier to lie down to digest it. Juan, evidently frustrated by his inability to get into his sweetheart’s bedroom, starts to feel unappreciated. He moves past a group of young nobles tossing out insults as if they were high wit: phrases like ‘stuffed bladders’ and ‘lounging Roman gluttons’ are thrown like stray punches. One of them hits back. The words ‘Spanish bastard’ come out loud enough for others to hear. An exchange of slanders: a common enough dance on the night streets of most cities.

Juan, however, snaps around in instant outrage, and there is a sudden hush as the room holds its breath, waiting for a weapon to be drawn. Instead the duke, flushed and unsteady on his feet, flings down his goblet and marches out of the room. By the time the Vice-Chancellor gets to the courtyard, his honoured guest is on his horse and out on the streets, hammering towards the bridge and the Vatican. Ascanio Sforza returns, a nervous smile on his face, and waves the guests back to enjoyment.

But Juan Borgia is not finished yet.

The Pope is sitting through a less than enjoyable foot massage and drinking his after-dinner fennel-and-mint infusion when his son storms into his chamber, ranting about insult and violation. The servant is dismissed, Juan’s voice ringing in his ears as he backs out of the room.