Blood & Beauty (28 page)

It is difficult to know how much jubilation a good Christian should admit to when someone he hates is violently dispatched. But when the news of Juan’s death reaches Giovanni Sforza in his palace in Pesaro, he has no problem celebrating. He might have preferred that it was another brother-in-law butchered and thrown into sewer water, but over the last months he has suffered from the rough tongue of Juan as well as Cesare, and there is no doubt that the death makes his spirits rise.

Alas, the euphoria does not last long. Halfway through the night he wakes with crippling stomach pains when he realises that even now they must be discussing who might be responsible for such a monstrous act and that his own name cannot be far from anyone’s lips. When tales of the Pope’s wailing through the night reach him he is in a panic lest anyone might hear the word ‘Sforza’ rising up from within his howls. His cardinal cousin, he learns, has already given up the keys to his house to be searched for evidence and has fled in fear of his life.

There are moments when he wishes that he
had
done it, had had the courage. What would it have taken? How much money? Which contacts? Which men? The world is full of ways to carve a body into pieces without being the one to wield the knife. But you would have to be sure of the loyalty of your employees: that they were more frightened of you than of the victim’s family. And he has never commanded such a following.

The news of the Pope’s emotional collapse and public repentance is so extraordinary that Giovanni almost envies his father-in-law his capacity for feeling. He spends so long on his letter of condolence that by the time it is dispatched he is already hearing how many others have been received. The papal choir will soon be rehearsing the most delicately felt motet on the death of David’s son Absalom by the Pope’s own composer, and even His Holiness’s most passionate opponents have been moved to try to comfort him. The mad monk of Florence, Savonarola, who spends his life launching thunderbolts at the Vatican, sends a fulsome sermon on love and God’s infinite compassion, while from France no less an enemy than Cardinal della Rovere writes such a feeling letter that the Pope cries all over again when he receives it. One might even believe that political rapprochement is not impossible after all.

As the Sforzas are publicly absolved and received back into the Vatican fold, the names of further suspects speed out of Rome amid clouds of summer dust. In Venice the word ‘Orsini’ is everywhere on the Rialto, while in Florence they are even whispering individual names: Paolo, nephew to the poisoned Virginio. Or his brother-in-law, the bellicose Bartolomeo. But everyone agrees that whoever is responsible, the Borgias will have to swallow their pain and bide their time. The arrogance of the murder speaks of threat as well as punishment, and there are those who wonder if the family will be able to survive the blow. It seems even the Pope understands that: by August he has officially called off the investigation, claiming that he is leaving the matter to God.

The gossip gives Giovanni hope that his own fortunes too may change and that in all this new-found holiness his marriage might be given a second chance. At times he is not sure what would be worse, to be tied for ever to this vicious, violent family or shamefully shrugged off. But as long as Alexander is Pope the answer is clear: as the ruler of a city that is also a papal state it is better to be inside his family than out. To help things along he even prays: for the soul of Juan (safe enough – it will take more than his prayers to keep him from the fires of hell), and for his own future.

He gets his answer soon enough. While his Vice-Chancellor Ascanio Sforza is received with open arms and given the honour of private consultations by both the Pope and the Cardinal of Valencia, the warm welcome soon gives way to cold reality. The marriage is over and the Pope now wants it done with. The longer it takes, the less chance there is of him keeping the dowry.

The matter is deposited firmly into Giovanni’s lap. Or rather a little higher in his anatomy. Ascanio’s letter spells out the depths of humiliation that await him, paraphrasing as it does the wording of Lucrezia’s declaration of non-consummation.

He reads the first lines and then explodes with fury and outrage. How could they do this? They, who are already reeling from the effects of their corruption. What infamy, what nerve. ‘How dare they?’ He rages around the palace, his servants running after him. After months of silent moroseness there is worry that he might be tipping into madness. Entering what had once been Lucrezia’s rooms, he overturns chairs and smashes vases, tearing the covers from the bed so that he can imagine better the sight of her, her chaste nightgown pulled up over her thighs as she opens her legs to let him in. Non-consummation? He, who had lain with her a dozen times in the first few weeks of their arrival in Pesaro alone. He, who had a child by his first wife. What do they take him for? An imbecile, a coward, a man without balls? Well, they have picked wrongly. He is cousin to the Duke of Milan. He will not give them what they want. Without his agreement, while they may force an annulment, Lucrezia’s declaration will be seen for what it is – a diplomatic lie – and make her damaged goods when it comes to remarriage. Cometh the hour, cometh the man. He may not have what it takes to cut his enemies’ throats, but he can stand up to this deceitful, immoral, conniving upstart family.

A flurry of correspondence moves between him and Cardinal Ascanio. But each reply is more dispiriting than the next. Eventually he packs his bags and sets out incognito for Milan. If his cardinal cousin is too compromised by his connections to the Pope, then surely the Duke Ludovico will have the guts to support him. By the time he arrives at the Sforza castle he is enjoying the sense of adventure that comes with disguise and subterfuge, and once safely inside the great modern fortress palace it is impossible not to feel braver.

But for all his belligerence, Ludovico Sforza has troubles of his own. Having unleashed the demon of foreign invaders into Italy, the all-powerful ruler of Milan is now living with the consequences. The French, once so keen to be his friend, have developed a taste for easy pickings and are now looking to find a claim on Milan itself. Ludovico needs to make Italian allies as fast as he once made enemies. And pleasing the Pope is high on his list.

The first thing he does is to instruct his young cousin to take off his ridiculous disguise, put on his ducal finery and come round to the main entrance as an official visitor. With spies everywhere he does not need to be found negotiating behind the Pope’s back. Once the Duke of Pesaro is formally acknowledged, he throws him a small banquet, gives him a state bedroom and, before he allows him to retire to it, sits him down and tells him the facts of life.

‘They will have this marriage dissolved by fair means or foul. The longer you prevaricate the harder it will be on you in the end.’

‘But it is not fair,’ Giovanni wails.

‘No,’ the duke muses, thinking back on how often he heard that same phrase from his brother’s son, the one whose dukedom he usurped before delivering him a dose of something nasty in his bedtime drink. How these spineless young men do whine.

‘What can we do?’ Giovanni sighs, looking out through the windows to where a gigantic clay horse stands in the summer twilight, so fine, so lifelike, its right foreleg lifted boldly into the air, so that at any moment one might expect to see it move off into a trot. When it is finished it will surely be a wonder of the world. ‘The monument of the great horse is still not cast, I see?’

‘Ah, he has too many ideas, that man da Vinci. His mind works faster than his hands.’ The duke waves an arm to the blaze of colour on the half-frescoed walls around him. ‘If I had waited for his brush in every room, most of the palace would still be bare plaster. Your grandfather Francesco will be turning in his grave to see how long his memorial is taking. Well, he will have to wait longer now. We will need bronze for casting cannons not horses if the French come back.’

‘These are parlous times.’

‘Ha! What times aren’t?’

‘Still, I think a man should stand up for what he believes in. Which is what I intend to do. This attack on my masculinity is an outrage.’

Ludovico, who with his swarthy looks and belligerent manner has never had any problem with potency, public or private, cannot help but be amused. ‘So you are saying that it is not true that the marriage was never consummated?’

‘What? No! Of course it is not true. As God is my witness, no. I have known my wife an infinity of times.’

‘An infinity, eh? Lucky man. In which case it’s a pity she is willing to swear the opposite.’

‘If she signed that declaration of her own volition then she is a liar and a whore.’

‘That’s as may be. But they have circumstance on their side. Three years and still no issue to prove your version of the story.’

‘But the proof is that my first wife died in childbirth.’

‘In which case you should know there are rumours that someone else had a hand in that.’

‘What? Who? Who is spreading such filth?’

‘I can’t imagine.’

‘It is them! That family. Nothing can survive their corruption. You should see how they behave, all of them! Kissing and caressing. It is an affront to God’s modesty. You cannot keep them out of one another’s arms. I tell you, the Pope only wants her back for himself.’

‘Back for himself? My! You have reason to be angry, but you had better be careful what you say in public, Giovanni. Or get yourself some more bodyguards fast.’

‘I… I will not – not be downtrodden,’ he stammers. ‘I have four men already. Do you think that is enough?’ He shakes his head. It is a trial being both scared and brave at the same time. ‘Anyway, what I say here is not in public,’ he says, wondering as he does so how many others he has told already.

‘No. But we all know how news travels. The Duke of Gandia may be dead, but the real viper in the Borgia nest is still very alive.’ Ludovico gives a mirthless little laugh and fills both of their glasses. ‘Let it go, young cousin. Everyone knows it is politics and not your prick that is the problem.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Look at him, Giovanni thinks. Such bulk, such bravura. No sign of constipation or twisting bowels here. Instead, with threats building all around him his manhood glows even brighter. ‘I have come to you for help. My name – which is our name – is being traduced.’

‘Very well. I do have a suggestion. Though you may not warm to it.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Ascanio will ask that Lucrezia leave the convent and be taken under his protection to his estate at Nepi, where you can join her. There, with both sides as observers, you can prove that their assertions about your manhood are wrong.’

Giovanni stares at him in disbelief. Ludovico’s proclivity for black humour is something that does not run in the family. ‘I – but that’s preposterous. Anyway, they would never allow it.’

‘In which case we’ll do it without them. I could set something up here. A few professional women… We could invite the cardinal legate, the Pope’s cousin, to adjudicate.’

‘Are you trying to humiliate me?’

‘I don’t need to, Giovanni, you humiliate yourself. The world is full of bigger problems than your manhood. Stop being a fool and accept the inevitable.’

‘I… am not a fool.’

‘Alas, that’s exactly what you are, cousin. Always were and always will be. The problem is that now you are a dangerous one. So let me put it plainly. You have a choice. You can lose a wife and a little public honour, but keep your state and the dowry; or you can keep your honour and lose everything else. Because be assured, when the Pope sets out to crush you, which he will, I will not lift a finger to help. Now, can I get you anything else before you retire?’

Back in Rome, Alexander prays for the soul of his dead son daily and does his best to stay humble for God as the pleasures of politics whisper temptation into his ear like the snake in the Garden of Eden. Meanwhile, in the real garden of San Sisto, a similar test is taking place. Summer is turning to a golden autumn. The sun has kissed the convent fruit trees and the figs are blush ripe, so rich and lovely that the invitation to pluck and sink one’s teeth into their sweetness is proving almost overwhelming.

It has been a gentle courtship, the early encounters taking place on the same stone seat under the shade of the vine as the day draws to a close, exchanging letters refreshed by a breeze that ripples the water in the pond and cools the skin, if not the hearts, of those who sit there. As the light dies away they have lingered sometimes, talking of this and that, safe in the feeling that no one is watching. If they have done anything more, a brush of hands, maybe a brush of lips, it has been fast and breathless, almost as if it has not taken place at all. Even in the world of knights and princesses there are consequences, and they both know that this shy, sly affection that is growing between them is forbidden and perilous. Which means the mingling of joint laughter or the imprint of a kiss carries an excitement equal to a much greater sin.

By mid July, the roar of summer heat had driven them inside, to the merciful relief of thick cell walls. In itself, there was nothing amiss in this. As a noble visitor Lucrezia has a small suite of rooms to house herself and her maidservant and it is certainly not the abbess’s job to supply additional chaperones. Nevertheless, the atmosphere of the convent seems to shift a little. The balance between talking to God and listening out for worldly gossip is a delicate one, and to have the fashionable young daughter of a pope licking her marital wounds at the same time as playing court to a handsome young messenger has made the younger nuns almost flighty. In response, the abbess’s eye has become more eagle. So that when she comes across Pantisilea in the chapel, praying during the same work hour when her mistress is entertaining her visitor, she decides it might be prudent to visit her guest herself.

Had she come a little earlier she might have found greater evidence. That day there have been a number of more ardent kisses and the lacing on the top of her dress has become loosened so that rising full moons of creamy skin are exposed. Each has been expecting the other to pull away, yet somehow it hasn’t happened. It is only as their hands take on a will of their own and she starts to utter little moans as her skirts lift that the enormity of the transgression comes home to him and, like the good knight he strives to be, he desists. Just.

By the time the abbess knocks – and then chooses not to wait until she enters – they are sitting together, a book in their hands, trying unsuccessfully to settle their hearts back into their bodies. It looks blameless enough: a young man and woman together, intent on a story. Except the second he sees her he is on his feet, knocking the book to the floor, and suddenly they are both ducking to pick it up and all is flutter and nerves. A more guilty innocence would be hard to find.

‘Mother abbess. You startled us.’

‘So I see. I was looking for your maidservant,’ she says evenly. It has always been her belief that God will forgive a white lie if it leads to the saving of souls.

‘Oh, I think she went to the chapel. Pedro… Señor Calderón has brought me a letter from my father. All goes a little better in Rome, it seems. I am so pleased.’

‘And His Holiness has sent you a book too?’

‘Oh, oh no; it is one I brought with me. We were speaking of history and there was a story in it which seemed apposite.’

‘Yes. I remember that as a boarder you had a fondness for chivalric tales.’

And now both of them are blushing. The abbess moves her eye from Lucrezia to the young man. The look she gives him would freeze fruit on the vine. It is a chastisement well known among the novices and it works just as well on him now.

‘My lady duchess. Mother abbess. I will take my leave. The letter will be in your father’s hands within the hour, you may depend on that.’

The same letter that presumably is already in his pouch, giving him no reason to remain.

‘Thank you, Señor Calderón,’ Lucrezia says lightly. ‘God speed you on your way.’

‘Mother abbess.’ He bows low.

She bows high. He cannot get out fast enough.

She waits until the door is closed behind them.

‘My dear duchess—’

‘Señor Calderón, as you know, is the most trusted of my family’s messengers,’ Lucrezia interrupts gaily. ‘He and I knew each other a little before I came here. He is a noble, honourable young man who lives only to serve.’

‘Yes, I see that very well.’

As befits a woman in charge of so many young souls, she is a subtle judge of character with an excellent memory of all who pass through her hands, especially the more noble ones. Even at twelve years old Lucrezia had an infectious appetite for life, along with a desire to please God as well as her family. She was, however, never good at telling lies.

‘And along with the letters he brings me other small morsels of news. Which is important for when I return. And also gives me pleasure, because – well, there is so much pain, and so much that I miss. Though of course I am quite content here…’

It is a satisfaction, of sorts, to find that she is still better suited to telling the truth.

‘My dear duchess…’ she begins again, more firmly. ‘It is an honour to have you housed under our modest roof once again. You are delivered into our hands by no less a man than the Holy Father himself, and it is our job, and our joy, to protect and keep you safe, both in body and in soul.’

She pauses to let the words rest around them. She must be careful now: this young woman is a power in the land, even if she herself does not choose to be, and it would be a disaster if, under her watch, some scandal should take place. But equally it would not do to offend her.

‘This is a difficult time in your life, as we know. We pray daily that God will find a way to release you from your unfortunate marriage and establish your purity in the eyes of the entire world. In the pursuit of which, I think it advisable for Señor Calderón to spend less time on news and more on the simple business of delivery and collection of letters.’

‘I – I think how long he stays and what we speak of, mother abbess, is not your business,’ she says hotly.

‘With deep respect, I believe it is.’

‘We do nothing but talk!’

The abbess watches her flushed, pretty face. A lifetime ago she herself had been in love with life and the clang of convent doors behind her had been a bitter sound. But she would not change places with her now. ‘It is not always what one does, my dear. But what one feels.’

Lucrezia stares at her. ‘I… I pray fervently every night.’

‘I know that. You were always eager to be in God’s company, Lucrezia. I remember it well. And He is always waiting to help you. I will have someone find your maidservant and send her to you. I trust her prayers have been granted.’

‘Mother abbess?’

‘Yes, my child?’

‘You will… you will not say anything about this.’ It is hard to know if it is an order or a request. ‘I mean… to my family.’

No, indeed, she would not change places with her now. What a burden to be so tossed by power and fortune. ‘I speak only to God,’ she says. Though as she says it she feels a slight disquiet, as if even the contents of prayer sometimes have a way of seeping out into the world at large.