Blood & Beauty (27 page)

Finally, on the afternoon of Sunday June 18, after three days and three nights of grief, Alexander calls his manservant in to wash and dress him. With much coaxing he agrees to take a little soup and watered wine. Burchard is then allowed to enter. Through him he sends a message to his waiting cardinals, thanking them for their sweet vigil and asking them to leave him now for the comfort of their own beds. He will address them all in closed consistory of the Sacred College the next morning.

When the hour comes the great room is filled to bursting, the only absences being della Rovere, still in self-imposed exile in France, and the Vice-Chancellor, Ascanio Sforza, who clearly does not feel safe enough to leave the house of the Milanese ambassador. The Pope arrives leaning heavily on his servant’s arm. They all fall to their knees as he enters, then rise quickly to take in the sight of a man who seems smaller than they remember. Alexander, for so long propelled through life on an energy greater than his years, appears suddenly vulnerable, even old. His son, the Cardinal of Valencia, the most handsome and dandified cleric in the room, looks grim and tired. Everyone waits.

‘The Duke of Gandia is dead.’ His voice is strong with emotion. ‘A worse blow could not have been dealt us because we loved him above all things and valued not more the papacy nor anything else. God has done this perhaps for some sin of ours, and not because he deserved such a terrible or mysterious death. Nor do we know who killed him and threw him like dung into the Tiber—’

He falters for a second, looking around him. The cardinals sit locked into the drama. It is clear they have no idea what words will come out of his mouth next.

‘There are many rumours, but this we will say now. We absolve our vice-chancellor of any suspicion of guilt and would ask that he return to his home and our service, and lay aside any fears for his own safety that he might have. Equally we are convinced of the innocence of our son-in-law, and of our former compatriot in arms, Guidobaldo da Montefeltro, Duke of Urbino, both of whose names are being carried on the winds of gossip.

‘The investigation for the perpetrators of this obscene crime will continue, but we will move forward in a resolve to lead a new life for ourselves and for the Church which it is our privilege to rule over. In future, we will pay scrupulous attention to the appointments of all sacred offices. Benefices will be conferred only to those who merit them, with all nepotism renounced and a commission of ecclesiastics to oversee a new era of reform. If we had seven papacies, we would give them all to have the Duke of Gandia alive again, yet nevertheless we will go forward under God’s clear and watchful eye.’

And now, at last, Alexander’s gaze falls on the Cardinal of Valencia, who sits impassive, his eyes cold into the distance, as if there is no longer any connection between father and son. Such is the shock of it all that afterwards the cardinals, who can scarcely believe their ears at this turn of events, wonder if this cocky young Borgia has lost not only a brother but also the approval of a father who has done so much to advance his career.

What they do not know is that by the time Alexander walks into the room, father and son have already been in conference, feeling their way towards a strategy to deal with the chaos into which the family has been plunged.

It was close to dawn when Alexander, pulled from fitful sleep back into a fog of grief, secretly called for the Cardinal of Valencia. Cesare had been waiting for the moment: he, who could face a goaded bull and feel no fear, registered an unfamiliar lurch in his stomach as he entered the bedchamber.

‘Ah, my son!’

The air is stifling. In the gloom he makes out the figure of his father sitting heavily on the side of his bed in a linen robe, his head bare, no papal regalia to give him stature. He rises up and opens his arms, swaying slightly on his feet. As they embrace Cesare feels the sweat on his body and the gasping breaths of a man who still has more tears to shed.

‘Father.’ They stand entwined, as if Alexander has not the strength to support himself alone. ‘Father, your suffering is inside us all. The palace has been in fear for your well-being.’

‘Ah, what is my pain compared to his?’ He breaks away and sinks back towards the bed, his hand grasping the thick carved bedstead as a crutch. ‘He is dead, Cesare. Juan is dead; tortured and thrown like a dog’s corpse into the Tiber.’

‘Yes, Father. I know.’

‘And I… I have been in hell.’

‘But you are back now,’ Cesare says firmly. ‘Which is only right and proper, for as God’s vicar on earth you are sorely needed here. The whole of Rome is holding its breath waiting for your response.’

‘Yes, yes, you are right. I am needed. You know when I was lost, even Mary Madonna, Mother of God, would not heed my cries. She who has supported me through all my triumphs and tribulations. Ha! But she came to me in the end. When I had no more strength she took pity and offered me her hand. Oh, the sublime comfort of her blessing. And now, as you say, we must go forward. And make amends. Our behaviour has offended God, Cesare.’

‘That may be so, Father,’ Cesare says carefully, moving to stand in front of him. ‘But I think it was not God who plunged the dagger into Juan’s body.’

‘No, no. Still, it is to Him we must make amends.’

‘And He will listen and bring us all to peace.’

‘Yes, all of us. Oh, I have been selfish in my pain. Your mother? Ah, who will tell Vannozza that her son is dead?’ He grabs at his son’s hand, squeezing it hard. ‘And Jofré? And my sweet, sweet Lucrezia? Lucrezia, who loved her brother so.’

‘The news is delivered to all of them, Father. Our mother will find solace in God and Lucrezia will be better cared for in the convent than she would be here.’ He pauses, never taking his eyes from Alexander’s face. ‘We must look to ourselves now. Whoever did this intended to destroy you as much as Juan. But they will not succeed. You are too strong for them.’

Alexander nods heavily, staring at the fiercely coloured tiles on the floor in front of him. His face is sagging flesh, as if the bones beneath have melted; a man collapsing into himself.

‘Father?’

‘Yes, yes. I am still here,’ he mutters. And slowly he pulls himself back from the slump until he is sitting upright. The head lifts last of all. ‘So, tell me, Cesare. Who is it, you think, that we have offended more than God?’

‘Everything marks it as a revenge killing: the precision of the trap, the cruelty of the wounds, the insult of the disposing of the body. I would say the Orsini.’

‘The death of Juan for the death of Virginio Orsini? Ah! The man was a snivelling traitor. That they should dare! You are sure?’

‘The Sforzas perhaps have as much motive, but I think less courage.’ He pauses. ‘But there are others.’

‘Is this how you buried your grief, my son? With thoughts of revenge? Did that help you with the horror?’

Cesare gives a slight shrug. ‘It has been three days. And you have been crying for all of us.’

‘Still, I hope you found time to pray. Whatever power a man has in this world, there is no comfort without God, and a cardinal cannot live within our Holy Mother Church without prayer. That is an offence in itself.’

‘I am what I am, Father,’ he says quietly. ‘The Church was never my chosen profession.’

The Pope grunts as if this is not something he wants to hear. ‘So? Who are these others?’

‘Perhaps this is not the time—’

‘Agh, it will never be the time. Nothing we do will bring him back. And I have promised God that my eyes will be directed to penance, not revenge.’ He stops. ‘However…’

Cesare takes the paper from inside his sleeve and puts it into his father’s hand. ‘The names written there denote motive, not guilt. You should know that before you read it.’

He looks at it and his face grows pale. ‘I don’t understand. What does this mean, these names at the bottom?’

‘It means that a deed this foul will breed gossip as fast as corpses breed worms. And everyone who has been in this palace has witnessed things they will talk about. Not least of which is Jofré’s jealousy on behalf of his wife.’

‘Jofré? Jofré! I do not believe it for an instant.’

‘Neither do I, Father. But he has grown a temper along with his manhood, and when tongues start wagging it is best we are prepared.’

‘And you? You, Cesare. Your name is on this list. God in heaven, why do you put yourself here?’

‘Because if I don’t, others will. Juan and I quarrelled over many things, Father. You have seen it yourself. Our antagonism is well known. I have in my time envied him the place he held in the world.’ He pauses. ‘And the place he held in your heart.’

Alexander sits staring at him. Cesare waits. If it is a risk, then it is one that needs to be taken.

‘But you are so precious to me. You know that, surely,’ he says at last.

‘I do, yes. Which is why we must speak of this now. There must be no doubt between us, Father. So. Ask me. Ask me now and I will tell you the truth.’

‘Oh sweet Jesus.’ Alexander shakes his head and his eyes fill up with tears. ‘Very well,’ he says at last. ‘Did you kill your brother?’

‘No. No, I did not. I swear to you on my mother’s life. Though there have been times I have come close to wanting to.’

There is a quiet knock on the door. ‘Your Holiness. The time is come.’ His manservant’s voice is gentle, unsure. ‘The cardinals will be gathering for the Consistory soon. May I enter and help you dress?’

‘In a moment… in a moment.’

Alexander gets up and embraces his son heavily again. Is it possible that Cesare’s answer has staunched the bleeding from a wound that he himself had not yet been aware of? ‘I shall speak to Jofré and send him and his wife from Rome. They may find a stronger connection away from the temptations of the court. And I will write to Lucrezia. Ah, I fear I am being punished for my over-fondness of my children.’

‘What about the divorce?’

‘The divorce?’ He gives a small sigh, for a second resistant to the call back to family business. ‘I will talk again with the Vice-Chancellor.’

‘You’ll have to coax him out of hiding first. He is so sure we think him guilty that he has disappeared.’

‘All the better. It may make him more malleable to our will.’

‘And the Orsini?’

‘Ha! The Orsini. Damn their souls.’ His voice breaks apart with fury. He shakes his head to collect himself. ‘If we revenge ourselves now it will start a greater war in the streets, which would only play into their hands.’

‘You are wise even in grief, Father.’ Cesare, who has been eager for a sign that this new piety will not last for ever, smiles. ‘I will go to Naples and squeeze what concessions I can from the new king to make up for… for some of what we have lost.’

‘Our loss, yes.’ The thought catches again in his soul. ‘Ah. The Duke of Gandia is a two-year-old boy hidden in his mother’s Spanish skirts. Where is the Borgia future now?’

‘Don’t worry, Father. We will survive this. One enemy at a time. Just as you always said.’ He takes his hand and kisses the ring.

‘Ah, my son,’ Alexander murmurs. ‘My beloved son.’

It is hard to know which one he is referring to.

It might have been easier if Cesare
had
killed his brother. Then he would have had some plan ready in the wake of the chaos that now surrounds them. As it is, he must make it up as he goes along.

Fate. For him it has always been a more compelling deity than God. When did his allegiance to one overtake the other? If asked, he would probably not be able to remember. Even as a child the passivity of prayer – the humility of the asking and accepting – had felt not so much unhelpful as unnatural, and with adulthood, privately it had fallen easily into disuse. While others gained comfort and guidance by appealing to a force outside themselves, Cesare found everything he needed inside himself, and the shift from thinking to action came so naturally that it fast became who he was: in argument he would use his wits, with women his charm, and in the hunt or the bullring physical agility and strength. What the world sees as confidence, bravery, even arrogance, is, for him, simply being Cesare. God has nothing to do with it.

Given the whirlwind of gossip, it is inevitable that some will ask the same question that he has just put before his father. Did he kill his brother because he stood in his way? Except Cesare knows it is the wrong question. The more accurate one would be, why did he not do anything to stop it?

Over the eleven months since Juan had set foot in back in Rome it had become clear that he would almost certainly kill himself. His dalliances, his violence, his military incompetence were all bound to incite revenge, while his vanity and Alexander’s fawning love had made them both blind to the increasing danger he was in. Why else would Juan have allowed himself to become the willing servant of a masked man? To go with him after dark into Rome’s murky streets with only a single groom for protection? That night by the bridge, as the dinner-party guests had parted company, Cesare had come the closest he could to protecting him when he had offered Michelotto as a bodyguard. But Juan, eager to be seen as wilder and braver than his brother, of course had refused.

To be given so much, only to throw it away. No wonder Fate had turned against him. When the news came through of his horse found with one slashed stirrup it had been anger not grief that Cesare had felt: anger at the stupidity of such a degrading end. As Alexander lay battered by the winds of grief, leaving Cesare to police the city and try to fashion some tactics to go with this new reality, his fury had grown. How dare his brother have so unmanned his father, have brought such humiliation on the family?

By the time Cesare walked into the Pope’s bedroom that morning he had forged a strategy of sorts. He must somehow coax his father back from the quicksands of grief, for nothing can be done without his energy and consent. In time the crime will be avenged, but the first priority must be to address the damage.

With Juan’s death, so die the family’s dynastic and territorial ambitions in Spain. If they are to survive, they must now find a similar foothold in mainland Italy. If Cesare had an army at his back, the papal states would be where he would go. He has studied each and every one of them and most are ripe for the picking, cities ruled by petty tyrants with no allies of any size to protect them. If Juan had been a better commander or been more careful with his wooing. If… well, there is no use in ifs now. They must work with what they have. And what they have is a stake in Naples: a state reeling from invasion and once again dependent on papal support to crown its new king, Federico. Jofré’s marriage has already bought titles and lands there. The faster Lucrezia’s ties with the Sforzas are severed the faster she too can be woven into the dynastic web. In a perfect world he would go one step further. Federico has a daughter, Carlotta, of marriageable age. If she were to become Cesare’s wife, Naples would be closer for the taking. Except, of course, cardinals cannot marry.

One enemy at a time. As for the rest – he will wait for Fortune, which has taken such cruel revenge, to turn her smiling face towards them again. And when she does, he will be ready.

Naples: closer to Rome than many of the great cities of northern Italy, yet more foreign than any of them. Wars of invasion and centuries of sea and sun have turned its dark-skinned population even darker, so that when courtiers take to the streets with their artificially whitened faces, they look bloodless against those they rule over. Inland from the glistening bay, the city is cramped and labyrinthine: teeming alleys populated like anthills, longer streets with running loggias and deep cornices offering shade from the relentless sun. It is not enough. When summer bites, the heat grows so humid that it feels as if flesh is melting. Inside this cauldron, the city is pulled between piety and sin. As many convents as there are brothels, that is what they say about Naples. The balance may tip in favour of God, but with poverty rising like its own stench from the gutters, it is the discordant music of orgasm rather than the mellifluous singing of nuns that most travellers remember. No wonder the French could not resist it.

For the first few weeks, Cesare plays his part as a man of the cloth. The youngest ever papal legate to crown a king, he is regal in his ceremonial robes and cultivates a gravitas alongside his charm, so that even those who would prefer to mock him take him seriously. In the celebrations that precede and follow the coronation, he and the new King Federico, a man of sturdier backbone than his predecessor, spend long hours in conference, bemoaning the parlous state of Italy and laying plans to bind Naples and the papacy closer together, to withstand the appetites of Milan and Venice.

Outside the council chamber, a network of spies help him to build up a picture of a land as troubled as it is corrupt: large swathes of territory run by squabbling baronial families and beset by brigandry, making it so wild that civic government is well nigh impossible. In short, a state ripe for the taking, if one could find a way into the centre of power. By the end of the first week Cesare has secured a marriage proposal for his almost-divorced sister and prepared the ground for an even more audacious suggestion: that should a certain cardinal be able to revoke his clerical vows (with the support of the Pope nothing is impossible) he would be most interested in the hand of the King’s own lovely daughter, at present at the French court being groomed for whatever future her father’s diplomacy might bring her. The King listens and does not disagree. It would be politically impolite to do anything else.

With the diplomacy successfully concluded, Cesare slips off his cardinal’s robes and allows himself some pleasure. His prospective brother-in-law, Alfonso, a natural charmer, proves the most accommodating of guides. The pull of beauty amid languid heat does the rest. He moves between the attractions of the palace and the city. He falls in courtly love with a coquettish young duchess, showering her with attention and presents, until her virginity can barely stand the strain, then leavens the drawn-out challenges of courtship with the thrills of open lust.

The only difficult moment comes a few weeks before his departure, when he wakes to excruciating shooting pains in his legs and shoulders, so that he can hardly breathe or walk, and then his flawless skin breaks out in pustules. For a moment he feels panic. This is not the time for him to succumb to a plague, even one brought on by pleasure. Luckily, he has his own Spanish doctor in his entourage. Gaspare Torella is a medical scholar as well as a priest. He is also a man who makes it his business to study all new ailments, and there is none so new and challenging as the French disease.

‘You are not to worry, Your Lord Cardinal. There are things we can do to address it.’ He diligently notes down the symptoms (which now include a small canker on His Most Reverend Lord Cardinal’s penis) and recommends special unguents and a course of steam baths to open up the pores and led the morbid humours out.

In a few weeks the sores have started to close and a handsome young courtier returns, barely a trace of scarring to mark the adventure. As Cesare mounts his horse and leaves Naples, it feels as if Fate is once again with him. The doctor, riding behind, keeps his thoughts to himself.

Back in Rome, Alexander makes sure that the public welcome he offers his son is one of cool protocol, as befits a pious pope to an appointed papal legate. He even shows his distance by keeping him waiting for an hour.

It is a more pragmatic Alexander, however, who arranged the private meeting the night before, where, if he is to be honest, he found the fruits of Cesare’s diplomacy almost as rewarding as prayer.