Blood & Beauty (9 page)

For all Cesare’s sneering, Giovanni Sforza is not a bad-looking man. Tall enough, with a full head of hair, both of his eyes view the world from the same angle and his legs are straight and shapely. He has had the good luck to be born into a family riding high. Though he is illegitimate, bastards of men like the Sforzas are so common that they are seen more as a proof of virility than a lack of morality, and it has not stopped him from inheriting the vicarship of the papal state of Pesaro, with the muscle of his powerful older cousins, Ludovico and Ascanio, behind him.

The bad luck is that he does not share their rampant sense of ambition. At twenty-seven he has seen enough of life to know that he will never be one of its great players. When faced with any serious challenge, he has a tendency to register it in his gut, which can spasm so badly at times that it is all he can do not to curl up in unmanly agony. Raised on stories of war and cunning, he would like to deny this weakness, but rather like the power of second sight it is not something that one can argue with.

Still, marriage is usually a safe option for a man and he is no stranger to the demands of dynasties. His first wife had come from the confident city-state of Mantua, the sister of the current marquis, no less. While not a love match, they had got on well enough. It might have grown into something deeper, but within two years she was dead in the same bed as her stillborn baby, whose body she had begged to hold as they tried to staunch her bleeding.

The first Giovanni had known of this new alliance was when his cousin, Ludovico, had given him a fat post with an even fatter salary in the Milanese army. It wasn’t until the name of Borgia was attached that the stomach rumblings started. Mantua, at least, has been close to home and the Gonzaga family was of true Italian blood. But what could he do? It would have triggered infinitely worse pains to try and turn down a marriage brokered by a pope, and his own cousins, the Papal Vice-Chancellor and the Duke of Milan. He had been called to Rome for negotiations, and spent the best part of three weeks in a house waiting. The problem was that it seemed his bride was already betrothed to a Spanish nobleman, who had arrived at the same time and gone around rattling his sword, threatening to cut down any other man who staked a claim. On balance it seemed safer not to go out.

Then, suddenly, his rival was gone. The rumour was that it had taken three thousand ducats to buy him off. The amount augured well for the dowry this new wife would bring. His cousin, Cardinal Ascanio, took care of the bargaining, and sweet words and generous figures were everywhere. The betrothal had finally taken place in February, with his lawyer standing in for him. The man arrived back with tales of an unaffected, fresh young girl who would melt any heart, and an aunt who could talk the hind legs off a donkey. Of her troublesome brothers there was no sign. The dowry agreed was a hefty thirty thousand ducats. He would have the ear of the Pope and, eventually, the body of his precious young daughter. It was the chance of a lifetime. He wandered around the palace, where the ghost of his first wife was fading rapidly. He imagined the echoing rooms newly filled with courtiers, music and laughter. The city would become a centre of influence and culture. They would throw banquets for ambassadors and cardinals, even the Pope himself. He would hunt and dance and sit at table with a loving and lovely wife, who would give him a clutch of sons who would grow greater than their father. He spent much of that day in the latrine. Though why, given the evident wonders ahead of him, he did not understand.

But this was no time for stomach cramps. News tumbled out from Rome detailing the most fabulous preparations. His wife’s wedding dress alone was rumoured to be costing fifteen hundred ducats (separate from her dowry, he was reassured when he asked).

Giovanni’s own wardrobe was a problem verging on a disaster. As bridegroom to one of the richest families, he could not afford to be outshone. Yet without the dowry, which would not come till after the consummation of the marriage, neither could he afford to shine. In the end he went begging. His ex-brother-in-law in Mantua was in possession of a great ceremonial necklace made by a master goldsmith and fit for the prince that he was about to become. A loan would cost nothing, and any favour could well come back tenfold, given the influence of his wife’s family.

The necklace, impressive and heavy as a yoke, arrived quickly. The wedding itself, however, did not. It had been arranged for April, and then postponed to May, then again till June. The palace rooms were not ready. The Pope was still placating other suitors who were pursuing her. But when he plucked up the courage to ask directly, the answer came fast and fulsome. No, absolutely not. She will be yours and yours alone.

In name, but not yet in body. Perhaps this explains why his happiness was not unbridled. Of course it is hard to lust for something one has not yet seen. More importantly, since everyone knows that a marriage is not really a marriage until husband and wife have got into the same bed together, the official delay in consummation has had its impact on his stomach. In short, this union which on paper seemed made in heaven feels compromised from the start.

Alexander meanwhile has better things to worry about than the digestive system of his prospective son-in-law. Lucrezia, beloved though she is, is only one of four children he must move across the chessboard. And then there are all the challenges of the daily running of Christendom. It is his greatest pleasure when he can address both at the same time. So when the Spanish ambassador, Don Diego de Haro, arrives in Rome in June, the visit cloaked in such obvious secrecy that the whole city is awash with rumour, it seems that God has answered his prayers.

From the splendour of the papal throne, Alexander beams down at the paunchy bustling figure, shiny with the sweat of velvet and nerves, as he unrolls his parchment maps and moves the weights so that the curling pages stay flat enough to give the Sovereign Pontiff a better view.

‘You see the island here, Your Holiness, yes, yes? We have called it Hispania. See – there is the name written across it. It is as everyone is saying – a new world! Wondrous enough in itself, but who can tell what lies beyond it?’ The ambassador’s voice, high by nature, gets higher when he is excited. And today he is very excited indeed. ‘So – some line of demarcation is essential, as I am sure you will agree.’

Alexander nods judiciously, his face impassive though even he cannot help but feel a certain quickening of the pulse. This ‘new world’ is so new that the maps hastily drawn up for the purpose do it little justice. There are two now lying side by side on the floor of the Vatican receiving-room. To the east, they show the curving coast of the continent of Europe and Africa and then, across a great expanse of sea marked out by a few ink waves and fishes and the scratch of a few sailing boats with the wind in their sails, a vertical chain of long islands. Down one of the maps a thin chalk line has been drawn through the middle of the water. The other, a copy, is left bare. When Christian nations fight for the ownership of a new land, where else do they come for guidance but to the Pope? He takes his time, savouring God’s manifest grace towards mankind by opening up such vistas, but also the aching anxiety of this one little man in front of him, whose life and career now depend on the deal that he can make for his masters.

‘Your Holiness, history itself will congratulate you on the decision you take here today,’ the ambassador says, as meekly as he can manage.

‘History perhaps, Don Diego. But not, I suspect, the Portuguese. It is not true that they have claims further west than this line?’

‘Ah – that is unclear at this stage, Your Holiness, and further details can be negotiated by treaty later. It is the principle that Their Majesties Ferdinand and Isabella beg you to consider now. Our cause is just. You have the words of our own admiral Columbus in front of you as proof.’

Alexander picks up the leaves of a letter in his lap. ‘I must say it is a marvellous dispatch. Marvellous,’ he grins. ‘Such wonders. The island of Hispania alone, he tells us, is larger than Spain itself. I hear he has written another, fuller account that is being passed around the courts of Europe,’ he says drily.

‘It is a new world, Your Holiness. Everyone has a great appetite to hear about it. But what he writes there is for your eyes alone.’

‘Haah. And my eyes would dearly love to see these wonders for themselves. So rich.
So rich!
These natives. Giving back gold for shoelaces. And their carefree nakedness. It is like the innocence of Eden. Marvels indeed. Hmm. His letter leads one to believe that they are as taken with this admiral as he is with them. They see him as coming from the heavens in fact. I do hope your Columbus is not tempted to set himself up as more than a man.’

‘Your Holiness! He represents a nation that has expelled the Jews and the Moors and roots out heresy in every corner of the land. The flame of Jesus Christ burns as white-hot in our hearts as it does in your very own. And he is convinced these multitudes are ripe for conversion. No sign of idolatry. Just good spirits. That is what he writes. If they see him as coming from heaven then the truth that he brings with him will take no time to root and bear seed.’

‘Indeed. So certainly we must consider the request carefully.’ Alexander turns to Burchard, who is sat with his own pen poised over parchment. ‘What would you say, Johannes? It should be a papal bull, yes?’

Burchard nods.

‘And the wording? Precise and clear, I think. A line of demarcation running… so many miles west of – what – the Cape Verde Islands?’

‘Yes. Three hundred miles is what Their Majesties of Spain are requesting,’ Burchard adds quietly.

‘Three hundred,’ the Pope repeats. He gazes at the map. Oh, the pleasure of such moments. He sighs. ‘Three hundred. That really does not leave a lot of room for others, Don Diego. Such a little line to create such a great empire.’

‘Which will bring glory to all of us,’ the ambassador squeaks. This business is of such importance to Spain that he has arrived in the city incognito. And, like Columbus himself, he comes carrying gifts, though of somewhat more value than shoelaces.

There is a short silence. Alexander appears to be lost in thought.

‘Your Holiness, I… I must tell you how eagerly both my majesties await the arrival of your son, Juan, Duke of Gandia. His offered bride, Maria Enriques, besides being the cousin of the King, is a fine and noble woman, whose hand has been sought all over Europe. Theirs will be a union—’

‘Forgive me, sir!’ The Pope looks up, indignant. ‘We are not bartering our son in return for a line in the ocean. He is more worthy and more precious to us than a tribe of pagan souls.’

‘Of course!’ the ambassador laughs nervously. ‘As is the princess to Their Majesties. No, we are speaking of royal blood. Of the powerful ties that will grow between Spain and the papacy. The advancement of the Church. Of family.’ He pauses. Is this enough? Apparently not. ‘And the princess’s dowry I… I think you’ll agree is at least as rich as the lady who accompanies it. Not to mention the lands that will pass into your son’s hands.’ Surely he cannot want more? The ambassador glances at Burchard, who drops his eyes, his fingers offering the merest flutter of a sign.

So subtle. Not subtle enough that Alexander misses it. Wily old fox, the Pope thinks sharply. Burchard has been talking to him behind my back. But the realisation is not without admiration.

‘Yes, indeed. Church and family, Don Diego. We are united in those two great loves. Very well, the finer points can be discussed later. Three hundred miles then. Burchard, I leave it to you. We had better make the mark on the map in ink. And let us include in the bull some words from the letter of the admiral Columbus to us. To show his care of and loyalty to our holy office.’

The Pope nods at the ambassador to dismiss him.

‘Your Holiness.’ He swallows. ‘There is one more thing.’

The Pope stares at him.

‘My majesties have heard… well, it is said… I mean…’

Alexander waits. After a lifetime practising diplomacy and the culture of blandishments, it gives him an almost childish glee to watch others struggling. ‘I would spit it out if I were you, Don Diego. We wouldn’t want Spain discovering another new empire before you got to the point.’

‘I am referring to France. The rumour that, with the support of Milan, the new French king has put forward claims on the throne of Naples. This is something—’

‘—that would upset Their Spanish Majesties no end.’

‘Yes indeed. The balance of power—’

‘—is delicate. Ambassador, you do not need to tell me my job. I have been balancing power for most of my life. You will tell Your Majesties that while the Pope has entered into friendship and marriage union with Milan, partly in response to most aggressive behaviour from their compatriot in Naples—’

‘About which we have made our disapproval most clear—’

Alexander stops, making clear his greater disapproval at the interruption, and the ambassador subsides into silence. There are moments at prayer when he wonders if such clear enjoyment of power might border on the sin of pride. Or vanity. But such doubts do not last long.

‘However, Don Diego, while we are displeased we are nevertheless willing to be reconciled with King Ferrante in Naples, should he make proper overture. Furthermore we do not countenance foreign intervention in the land. The French ambassador knows our thoughts on this. And they have been relayed in the clearest words to his master.’

‘Your Holiness, I am deeply relieved to hear it,’ the little man splutters, though sharp ears might say his voice is not as fulsome as his words.

‘Good. And since you are in town, perhaps you would like to make your presence official. Then we might invite you to join in the celebrations of our daughter’s nuptials. Oh – and send word to your admiral that we will be most pleased to hear from him again. His stories inform and delight us beyond measure.’

The little girl bites her lip to avoid shouting out. Her white teeth shine fiercely against the pomegranate red of the inside of her mouth and her ebony skin. Pinturicchio, who attended yesterday’s rehearsals, already has artistic designs upon her. But she is struggling now. The dress they are squeezing her into is too tight around her chest, and she squirms, unable to breathe properly.

‘Hold still!’ Adriana yells.

The child stops, staring at Lucrezia, who stands with her back to her, a river of embroidered white silk falling down from her shoulders along the ground towards the girl’s feet. It is the most beautiful sight she has ever seen.

‘Right. Now, pick it up. Bend, girl. There, hold it. Yes, two hands. Further apart. This high up. See. Feel the weight of it.’ Adriana’s voice slips between exasperation and irascibility. ‘Remember, this is your job. You hold this train and you walk behind Madonna Lucrezia. At the speed we practised yesterday. No faster, no slower. Don’t look at anything or anybody else. When she stops, you stop. When she walks, you walk. And you never, never let it go. Never. Not until I myself tell you to. You understand?’

The girl’s fingernails are pale at the edges with the ferocity of her grip on the material. She looks up at Adriana’s blotchy face, the white powder eaten away by stress to reveal a forest of broken veins stretching from the trunk of her nose out across her cheeks.

‘Do you understand?’ Adriana throws up her hands in frustration. ‘The child is useless. She’s black enough but completely deaf and dumb. I asked for one that was not a savage.’

‘I think she hears every word, aunt.’ When others flap, Lucrezia finds it easier to be calm. ‘I spoke to her yesterday and her Italian was as good as yours or mine.’

She comes closer, the movement wrapped in a rustle of silk, bends down and rests her own hand lightly over the girl’s. ‘Do you understand what my aunt says?’

The girl nods. Lucrezia’s fingers, naked and pale, give way to a half-glove, looped over her middle finger, the silk stretching over the back of her hand and into the wrist of her gown, its entire surface encrusted with small pearls, as luminous as the black sheen of the girl’s own skin underneath. They both stare, equally entranced at the wonder of the contrast.

The girl looks up. ‘I walk when you walk. I stop when you stop. I hold on to it until
she
tells me to let it go.’

‘See!’ Lucrezia beams. ‘Perfect. You look most pretty,’ she whispers.

The girl stares. And stares. ‘So do you.’

‘Aah!’ Adriana, if possible, is even more exasperated.

The great room at the top of the palace is a madhouse. It is as if a wandering theatre troupe has billeted itself there, late for a king’s performance of a chivalric spectacle. Except all these players are young women. Dozens and dozens of them from Rome’s great families, to act as maids of honour for the arrival of the bridegroom and the marriage ceremony. By now they are mildly hysterical, chattering and screeching like starlings in the twilight hour. Adriana, in contrast, is a general who has lost control of her troops.

A woman enters the room and whispers something in her ear and she stops, clapping her hands and letting out a great bellow.

‘Silence! Silence!’

The room comes to a standstill amid a hushing and shushing of silk across marble floors.

‘We are ready. The moment is come. Listen. Listen.’ She motions to the open loggia at the end of the room.

They stand listening, and there, in the distance, they hear it: the blast of a trumpet, then the curl of pipes and flutes and drums weaving in behind.

‘They are on the other side of the river. Crossing the Sant’ Angelo Bridge. They will be here within the half-hour.’

Adriana rushes out into the loggia, ducking her head over the open balustrade, then ducking back again, her face lit up, younger suddenly than her years.

‘Oh, the piazza is full already. Oh my. Oh my. Everyone to their places. Ladies. To the end wall in your ranks. I shall tell you when to come forward. Lucrezia, you go out on to the loggia now. But not so as they can see you yet.’

The room clears, the young women scurrying to their places, so the space is empty save for Lucrezia. And her eager little train bearer, who does not budge an inch.

Adriana turns on her. ‘What? What? Didn’t you hear what I said? Get over there with the others.’

The child looks up at Lucrezia, but she does not budge.

Lucrezia nods. ‘What she means is that she wants you to put down the train now.’

The girl, biting her lower lip in a gesture of deep concentration, curtsies, bringing the river of fabric to the ground in a slow movement of such grace that both the women cannot take their eyes off her. Then, head high, she marches like a small soldier to the back of the room.

Adriana, who has the vague sense that she has just been upstaged in some way, shakes her head, then throws her entire attention and anxiety on to her niece.

‘It’s all right, aunt. I can walk myself. I am ready.’

She has been ready for the best part of seven hours. She had woken before dawn without the need of any bell, and lain awake, saying her prayers and asking for guidance in this, the most challenging moment of her life: the first meeting with her husband. By the bed, underneath
The Imitation of Christ
and
The Book of Hours
, lies a small, well-thumbed volume of chivalric tales, deemed uplifting enough for girls of her age and class. Within its pages, pure-born princesses, tricked or betrayed by evil half-brothers or usurping kings, fight their way through wild landscapes and grisly combat to find their thrones and their true love. While she has no illusions that that is what is on offer here, she cannot help but feel a little dizzy with all the thrills and frills, the heat of so much attention directed at her.

The day outside her shutters had arrived pristine, perfect: Rome in early summer is a sweet season, blue skies and a sun that kisses rather than crushes. On such a day D’Artu might have married his Ginevara. And for a while at least they would be happy.

She turns to her aunt. ‘How do I look?’

Adriana opens her mouth, closes it again, and then bursts into tears. She too has read her romances. Or perhaps she just has a reason to be upset by arranged marriages.

‘Well, it is too late to do anything about it now,’ Lucrezia says, squeezing her aunt’s hand. She lifts up her arms and the encrusted pearls glimmer in the sun. ‘Oh, my gown feels so heavy.’

‘Wait until you see Juan,’ she says. ‘He’s wearing half a jeweller’s shop.’

Lucrezia smiles at the unexpected wit, gives her a hug, and then walks out on to the loggia. Though she is careful not to show herself yet to the crowd, someone catches a glimpse and a great roar goes up. It has been almost a year since the public celebrations of the Pope’s coronation. Other cities of Italy have great dynastic weddings all the time. Now Rome has its own royal family. The Pope’s lovely young daughter. Ripe fruit. Free wine. Time for another Borgia party.

The sound of the music is growing closer. The drumbeat registers in her stomach. This is happening to me, here, now, she thinks. I am nearly fourteen years old and I am meeting the man I will marry. Dear, sweet Jesus, let him like me. Let me love him. With Your help I can do it. She tries to take hold of the feeling, still it, freeze it, pickle it, preserve it in some manner so that she can return to it at will, whatever happens from here on.

Below, the atmosphere is carnival rather than procession: this colourful knot of squires, knights, page boys and musicians attended by fools and jesters turning cartwheels, or gibbering and playing with the crowds, one decked out as a priest offering blessings to anyone and everyone. And in the middle somewhere, the bridegroom.

As the first drummers and flag wavers enter the little piazza in front of the palace, Lucrezia moves forward to the balustrade and every head goes up to look at her. For many it is the first sight they have had of her, this tender young woman emblazoned in silk and pearls, her virgin long hair under a jewelled net falling on to her shoulders. And they are, of course, enthralled. The Pope adores her, it is said. And why not? At this moment she is everyone’s daughter. The new blossom on the tree. The spring that promises a great harvest. The kiss of romance. The thrust of lust. Rome is hungry for it all. God preserve the family that brings them so much theatre.

The main group of horsemen moves into the square, then peels away to leave one horse and one rider.

He spurs his mount in a slow trot towards the loggia. He comes to a halt underneath. Man on horse: woman on balcony. A chorus of lovely young women can now be glimpsed behind her. He takes off his hat and bows low to the side, his thighs clasping tight to the saddle to balance the move. The reins clink, the horse whinnies slightly.

In response, Lucrezia drops into a deep curtsey, disappearing from view before rising up again. The moment is held. Then he replaces his hat and flicks the reins and his horse joins the others as the procession moves off towards the opening doors of the Vatican palace, where he will pay obeisance to her father.

The crowd howls its approval at a ritual well executed.

She turns back into the room. Her aunt stands, eyes still brimming.

‘I had the sun in my eyes.’ Lucrezia shrugs slightly, her heart still hammering out the drumbeat of excitement. ‘All I could see was a flash of gold on his chest.’

Everybody finds it wonderfully funny.