Blood & Beauty (42 page)

In his chamber, Alexander is soon enjoying the status of a man cradled in the hand of God. He holds court in bed, a doctor for each wound, offering salves and potions until he shoos them away in favour of another kind of healing. The door opens in a rush of perfumed silk on a flock of colourful birds: Lucrezia and Sancia with all of their ladies, bearing fruits and flowers and twittering welcome. He sits, his great tonsured head bandaged and his florid face bathed in smiles, as they arrange themselves around the bed. They stay from morning till night, feeding and amusing him with chatter and word games. The infidel Turkish potentate, it is said, keeps a whole house of women just for himself. Well, they cannot be prettier or more solicitous than these dear things. Ah, to be so loved! Someone had better tell Vannozza and Giulia. They will surely be beside themselves with worry and want to visit too. It is almost worth injury to gain such love and attention.

Two weeks later. Midsummer’s twilight, the kind of sky that has Pinturicchio crying into his palette with envy: a blood-orange sun dipping behind banks of cloud washed with such riotous, rapturous shades of colour that one almost expects Our Lady and all the angels to rise out of them into the heavens above.

Below are the steps of the Basilica of St Peter, old majesty crumbling under the weight of history, a place which has given sustenance to persecuted Christians over the centuries, but whose portico now offers something more humble, a stone bed for those pilgrims who cannot afford the price of a room.

A group of them lie huddled near one of the pillars, not far from the gates of the Vatican. Given the clemency of the weather one might have expected more people to take advantage of the spot. Certainly the night watchman who passed by a few moments earlier had been surprised to find the steps so empty. If he had looked closer he would also have noticed that these men were far from destitute: their boots are of good leather, their cloaks have a rich weave. Not that that in itself is so strange. For every ten pilgrims who sleep on stone out of necessity there will be a few who do so out of choice: a deliberate espousal of austerity in their journey to get closer to God. These fellows here are possibly a fraternity of cloth or leather merchants travelling together on a vow of poverty. They must be very tired now, for they have wrapped their cloaks around their heads as well as their bodies to keep out the glorious sunset. Ah well, waking to dawn on the steps of St Peter’s will be its own reward.

As the light dies the gates to the Vatican, to the right-hand side of the portico, unbolt and open just enough to let out three men, hats pulled down over their eyes and well dressed, though one of them more so, with pleats of gold edging to his velvet doublet. They all have swords swinging by their sides.

They take in the view around them, noting the sleeping pilgrims and the empty piazza, then move quickly down the stairs and across their side of the square towards the building next door, where there is a side entrance hidden in the shadow. They could have used the back way inside the two palaces, but that would have involved a long trek through corridors and secret doors and the great chapel of Sixtus IV into the downstairs chapel of Santa Maria in Portico. It is a fine enough route in rain or cold, but in summer the passages are stuffy and with such a gorgeous sunset who would not want to step outside and see the sky, even if only for a few moments?

They must be halfway to home when, from the steps of the church behind them, the cloaked huddle rises up like a dark wraith, then separates out to become six – no, seven – figures, flinging off their cloaks and unsheathing their swords. Within seconds, they have the three men surrounded, cutting them off from both palaces and flinging themselves upon them.

Alfonso of Aragon, his sword already out of its scabbard, turns to meet his attackers. How long has he been waiting for this moment? There had been a time, after Rodrigo was born, when he had hoped that the Pope’s good will towards them all would save him. But since his brother-in-law’s return, he has known that even the fortress of love that Lucrezia has thrown up around them is not strong enough to protect him from Cesare’s murderous rage.

This good-natured young man, unspoiled by ambition or too much intelligence, has little of the hero about him; yet he has walked towards his fate with his eyes open. Of course he has done what he can: he has given up hunting, because the world is full of stories of hunters who mistake a man’s coat for an animal’s flank; and these days he only leaves the confines of the palaces with bodyguards. But there has been nothing about this evening to arouse suspicion. He had joined his wife in the late afternoon, where she, the Pope, Sancia and Jofré were enjoying a tournament of draughts around the table in Alexander’s bedroom (how well the old man is doing!) and then he had stayed for an early supper. Lucrezia could well have accompanied him home – as she does sometimes – and it would take an insider’s knowledge to know that tonight she does not.

Well, so be it. God’s portico echoes with a chorus of clashing steel. He dispatches his first opponent fast, forcing the man’s blade high into the air then ramming him backwards with such ferocity that he loses his footing. It is not just for sport that he and his gentleman, Albanese, have returned to practising swordplay. If he is going to perish here then he will take a few with him. He catches Albanese’s eye and they both let out a howl at the same time: the exhilaration of dying. When they bring the news to King Federico, Naples will have reason to be proud of them both.

‘Murder! Murder!’ Behind them, his groom is yelling at the top of his lungs as his sword flails around him. ‘The Duke of Bisceglie is attacked! Open the doors. Let us in.’

It is not long before Alfonso takes the first wound to his arm. Left arm though. Fine, he doesn’t need it. He feels the stab of pain, then nothing. He turns on to the sword that delivers it and as he does so he notices a group of horses in the shadows at the bottom of the steps. By God, he thinks, they mean to take us somewhere else if they cannot dispatch us here. He has a flash of the Tiber, stinking weeds in his hair. Knowing there is no safety to be had in trying to reach the entrance, the three of them are falling back towards the Vatican gates, their shouts and ringing steel a terrible percussion in the night. ‘Murder. Bloody murder!’ Dear God, are the guards all deaf?

The next blow is to his head. It stuns him and he stands for a second undefended and would go down if Albanese doesn’t step in to save him. They cannot keep this up much longer; there are too many of them. Then a shaft of steel enters his thigh, high up, where the blood runs in rope-thick veins which if punctured can spurt out a life in minutes. He lifts his weapon to take out the man who did it, but he is falling already. On the ground someone is groaning – himself? – then a hand is grabbing his cloak and collar. ‘My lord, my lord!’ and he hears his groom’s voice, frantic, as he is dragged backwards up the stairs to the gates.

He feels the darkness upon him. I love my wife, he thinks. My wife, my sister, my son. I would die for them if I could. Is that what I am doing? He remembers nothing more.

Finally, the great Vatican gate clanks open. Albanese is still fighting like a man possessed, but they are already saved. At the first sign of help the attackers take to their heels, scattering across the piazza to the waiting horses. By the time the guards are out and following, they are gone, kicking up dust into the near-darkness.

In the Pope’s bedroom, Sancia is squeaking at the audacity of some move that her father-in-law has made on the board when the commotion reaches them.

Without ceremony, the door is flung open by the captain of the guards, and four men stagger in, carrying Alfonso, his head and his leg a mass of red, blood everywhere.

Sancia screams, the Pope yells and Lucrezia, on her feet immediately, looks at her husband’s body and faints to the floor. It is only later, when she is revived, that she hears the words. ‘He is breathing still. They have not killed him.’

‘God’s blood, how is it possible? Seven men against two fighters and a page? They were paid half a king’s ransom.’

‘Assassins are keen to stay alive to enjoy the money. I said you should have let me do it.’

‘You’d need to be blind and crippled to fail with those odds.’ Cesare, disturbed by Michelotto in Fiammetta’s house, is exhibiting the fury of a thwarted child. ‘If you had done it, someone would have known and my name would be on everyone’s lips.’

‘You think it won’t be anyway? Who else would pay a gang of Orsini louts to attack the Pope’s son-in-law?’

‘I’m not the only one who wants him dead,’ he snarls. ‘The Pope has given him land from Rome’s best families, and anyone who supports the French hates Naples.’

‘Not as much as you hate Alfonso.’

‘We could be lucky yet, my lord. He may die of his wounds.’

But Fate, usually so sweet for Cesare, in this case is not to be relied upon. Alexander, shocked by the insolence of the attack, has Alfonso put to bed in a room in the Borgia tower. Half hospital, half fortress, sixteen men from the Vatican guard are stationed outside, while the Pope’s own doctors tend him, every move watched by his wife and sister, who never leave his side. He survives the night. Two days later the King of Naples’ own surgeon arrives to take over. The duke’s wounds, it seems, are not mortal – ‘unless’, as one of the papal secretaries write to his old employer, the Duchess of Urbino, ‘some new accident intervenes’.

He, like every other commentator in town, knows who is behind the attack, though many are too nervous to commit the name to paper for fear of reprisals. Such is the Pope’s son’s growing power. Cesare for his part bluffs it out, visiting the duke soon after, while he is still half conscious. At their places by the bed, neither woman will look at him.

‘You are a most fortunate man to be so cared for,’ he says, staring down at the swollen face.

Alfonso’s eyelids flicker open, then close again.

‘My sweet sister,’ Cesare says, directly to Lucrezia. She lifts her eyes but they are blank, cold. Behind her, Sancia hisses like a cornered cat.

‘We will find out who did this,’ he says sternly. ‘The duke is a man with many enemies.’

To the Pope he is more forthright. ‘Neither I nor any of my men laid a finger on the Duke de Bisceglie. But I tell you that I am not sorry for what happened. The man is a liability to our cause and as long as he remains alive in the palace it will lead to more conspiracy and discord.’

Alexander, harried on all sides, is vacillating between outrage and strategy. ‘The King of Naples is demanding that we send him home as soon as he is fit. It may be for the best.’

‘Just so long as she doesn’t go with him.’

But that is exactly what they are planning. Lucrezia and Sancia have taken up residence in the patient’s chamber. They sleep on pallets at the end of the bed, dressed in simple gowns, their hair pulled back in white cloth like working girls. They are tireless in his care, bathing, feeding, dressing his wounds and overseeing the preparation of every meal in case of malevolent intent. They play their roles with a sweet intensity: ladies of leisure are not often given such a profound sense of purpose.

When he is strong enough to speak, at first he and Lucrezia talk only of mundane things: the warmth of the day, which meat he would like to taste, how the bolster pillow must be laid so that it does not touch his head wound. The world they have created inside this room, regulated by the progress of the sun and the humble repetition of domestic chores, feels unmarked by malice.

It is not until the first week has passed and Sancia is called out by a message from Jofré that the two of them are alone.

‘She has been like a wild animal in your defence, you know,’ Lucrezia jokes. ‘Even the royal surgeon from Naples is frightened of her. He marvels at your recovery. Says he has never seen such a thing and that you will be dancing again soon.’

‘Not in this palace. No, Lucrezia,’ he says firmly as she tries to interrupt. ‘It must be talked of. We cannot live in this room for ever. Sooner or later your brother will kill me, or have me killed. Unless I kill him first—’

‘No! No. We will protect you.’

‘What? A man hiding behind his wife and his sister’s skirts? What kind of image will that give to our son of his father?’

‘Then you will go to Naples. As soon as you are well enough to travel. The Pope has promised your uncle—’

‘Not without you.’

‘I will follow when I can.’

There is silence. There is no point in saying the words.

‘They will not stop me,’ she says fiercely. ‘I am not a child any more. We will be together in Naples.’

‘And when the French attack us there?’

‘Then we will go to Bisceglie. Or somewhere else. Anywhere. Anywhere that is not here.’

‘Don’t cry. You are right. We will find a way.’ And he uses his good hand to pull her head on to his chest.

‘Look at you – two lovebirds.’ Sancia comes in, carrying a tray of oven-fresh biscuits. ‘See what a good job we have done. Angels of mercy, that is what we are.’

‘Indeed you are,’ he says.

But when he lies back in the bed the gold-embossed Borgia coat-of-arms glowers down from the ceiling and in his dreams he fights with the hooded skeletons of death.

After two weeks, his youthful strength and their nursing begin to have an effect: with help, the leg wound is healed enough for him to leave his bed. When the women are sleeping one afternoon, he manages to get himself up as far as the window, with its view of the Borgia gardens beneath.

Cesare, whose day is just beginning at this hour, has taken to walking amid the orange trees in the garden to clear his head. The two men register each other’s presence at the same moment. Alfonso feels a hot knot of fear rise in his gut, but he makes himself tall on his good leg, lifting the catch to pull the window open.

Below, Cesare, unarmed, stands immobile, staring up at him.

What a target he would make from here, Alfonso thinks. If I had a weapon now I could do it. I swear I could.