10

POPE ALEXANDER HAD been betrayed at the moment of his greatest need by Virginio Orsini, one of his papal barons, a man he trusted, and he did not suffer this betrayal lightly. The devil had claimed another soul, he reasoned, and the devil must be destroyed. The fact that Virginio himself had been captured, tortured, and killed in one of the most notorious dungeons of Naples did not rid Alexander of his need for revenge.

To the Pope, this became a very real battle between the Vicar of Christ on Earth and Satan himself. As the leader of the Papal States, he knew he must take action against the local barons, those greedy warlords who were always fighting each other—and, even more disastrous, fighting the dictates of the Holy Catholic Church. For if the word of the Holy Father was not honored and obeyed, if evil was allowed to flourish and men of virtue did nothing, the authority of the church itself would be weakened. Then who would save the souls of the good for God?

Alexander understood that spiritual power must be supported by temporal might. Though the French army had withdrawn, and what few troops were left had been conquered by the armies of the Holy League, Alexander knew he must devise a suitable punishment to ensure that such a betrayal would not happen again.

After much consideration, he reasoned that he must make an example of the Orsini, to forever discourage the rebellion of the other barons under his charge. In order to do that, he must use the most lethal weapon in his spiritual arsenal: excommunication. Alas, he had no choice. He must publicly banish the entire Orsini family from the Holy Roman Catholic Church.

Excommunication was the most extreme of proclamations, and the strongest implement of the Pope’s power. For it was a punishment not only of this life but one which extended into the next. Once a man was exiled from the church, he could no longer gain the grace of the holy sacraments. His soul could not be cleansed of its sins by confession; the blackened stains must remain without forgiveness, the opportunity for absolution denied. A marriage could no longer be sanctified, a child could not be baptized, blessed, and protected from the devil by the sprinkling of holy water. Oh, sad day! No last rites could be performed to bring peace at the end of life, for burial in sacred ground was now forbidden. It was the most terrifying of all actions; at its core, it was a judgment that drove the soul into purgatory or even hell.

Having exiled the Orsini from the heavens, Alexander now concentrated on destroying their worldly power. He called his son, Juan, back from Spain to act as captain general of the papal army—despite the opposition of Juan’s wife, Maria Enriquez, who was again with child. His son and heir, Juan II, was only a year old, she argued, and had need of his father.

But Pope Alexander insisted that Juan was to leave Spain immediately to lead the papal troops—for after Virginio’s betrayal he no longer trusted any of the mercenaries, the condottieri. His son must return at once to seize all the towns and castles of the Orsini. Meanwhile, the Pope also sent a message to his son-in-law, Giovanni Sforza, in Pesaro, with orders to bring as many soldiers as he had, and offered to pay him an entire year’s salary if he did so with haste.

From the time his brother Juan was sent to Spain, Cardinal Cesare Borgia had hoped that his father would consider a change in roles for him. After all, Cesare had been the one at the Pope’s side, working on matters of state. He understood Italy. Juan belonged in Spain. And no matter how often his father insisted on his position in the Holy Mother Church, Cesare constantly hoped he would reconsider.

Now, sitting in the Pope’s chambers, Alexander told Cesare of his plans for Juan—that he was to conquer and keep the Orsini castles.

Cesare was furious. “Juan? Juan?” he said, unbelieving. “But Father, he knows nothing about leading troops. He knows nothing of strategy. His only concern is for himself. His strengths lie in the seduction of women, in the squandering of our family’s fortune, and in his own vanity. As his brother I owe him allegiance, but Father, I could lead troops blindfolded and you would be assured of greater success.”

Pope Alexander narrowed his eyes, and looked at his son. “I agree, Cesare. You do have a greater intelligence and ability for strategy. But you are a cardinal, a prince of the church, not a warrior of the battlefield. And who am I left with? Your brother Jofre? Unfortunately, he would lead his horse backward. I cannot even imagine a weapon in his hand. Therefore, what is my choice? A Borgia must appear to command this force, or we will lose the impact of this punishment for the Orsini betrayal on the other papal barons.”

Cesare sat silent and thoughtful for a moment before respond ing. “You truly expect Juan to secure a victory for us? After his ridiculous behavior in Spain, despite our warnings not to gamble, not to bed prostitutes, and to pay proper respect to his wife and the Enriquez family, first cousins of King Ferdinand? Still you choose him?”

Alexander’s deep baritone voice was soft and reassuring. “The real commander will be Guido Feltra. He is an experienced condottiere well known for his military skill and mastery.”

Cesare had heard stories about Feltra. That he was a good man, a loyal man, there was no doubt; he was a famous patron of literature and the arts, and the beloved duke of Urbino. But, in truth, his reputation was that of the son of a true condottiere, a professional soldier, who had gained the duchy as a reward for his military services. Young Guido himself had fought in too few battles, and had won them too easily, to challenge the experience of the ruthless Orsini soldiers. Especially at their main fortress of Bracciano. Certainly, if papal troops were to try to take Ostia, the home of Cardinal della Rovere, there was real danger for his father and for Rome. But Cesare said none of this to the Pope, for he knew that where Juan was concerned his father refused all reason.

Later that night, still angry, he sent a message to his sister. Then he secured a promise from Don Michelotto to accompany her from Pesaro, for he had asked Lucrezia to meet him the following week at Silverlake.

When Lucrezia arrived at the cottage, Cesare was waiting for her. She was dressed in a blue satin gown which highlighted her golden tresses and accentuated the blue in her eyes. It had been a long ride, taking over a day and a half, and her cheeks were flushed with heat and excitement. She ran into the cottage and put her arms around her brother’s neck. “I have so missed you,” she said. But when she pulled back to look at him, she saw the anguish in his eyes. “What is wrong, Chez? What is troubling you?”

Cesare sat on one of the large leather seats and patted the footstool in front of him. Lucrezia sat holding his hand, trying to comfort him. “Crezia, it is pure madness. Father has ordered Juan home to lead the troops as captain general, and I am so full of envy I could kill him . . . ”

Lucrezia stood up, walked behind him, and began to rub his forehead to soothe him. “Chez,” she said, “you must accept your destiny. It is not Juan alone who causes you such sadness. You also are to blame. It is as though you two are still children fighting over Mother Vanozza’s Christmas cakes. I do understand how you feel, but it can only cause you harm, for Father will do as he has always done. Only what he wishes.”

“But I am a better soldier than Juan, much more suited to leading troops, and I would guarantee a victory for the Holy Church and Rome. Why is it that Father would rather have a commander who is an arrogant braggart—a fool who just appears to be leading his army?”

Lucrezia kneeled in front of Cesare now, and looked up into his eyes. “Chez, why is it that Papa must also have a daughter who appears to be happily married to the ignorant duke of Pesaro?”

Cesare smiled. “Come,” he said, drawing her close. “I need you now. For you are what is real in my life. I appear to be a man of God, but for the hat of a cardinal and the love of my father, I swear, Crezia, I fear I have sold my soul to the devil. I am not who I appear to be, and I find that unbearable.”

When he kissed her, he tried to be gentle, but he had waited so long that he could not manage it. As he kissed her again and again, she began to tremble and then to cry.

Cesare stopped and lifted his head to look at her. There were tears in her eyes. “Forgive me,” he said. “It was brutal of me.”

“It is not the pain of your kisses you see,” she said. “They are the tears of my longing for you. This time in Pesaro makes me dream of the glory of Rome, and you are a part of those dreams.”

After they made love, they lay in bed a long time. Cesare seemed relaxed and Lucrezia could smile again. She rested her head on his shoulder and asked, “Do you believe, as Papa does, that it’s God’s will that his children should live without loving truly?”

“Is that what Papa thinks?” Cesare said, playing with his sister’s hair. “One could not imagine that by his behavior.”

“Well, I am married to a man I certainly don’t love,” she said. “And our brother Juan did not marry for love. Jofre loves easily, so he may be the lucky one, strange as that may seem. For only the hat of a cardinal has saved you from a fate like mine.”

“It is a heavy hat,” Cesare said.

“But not without benefit,” Lucrezia reminded him.

Once they had dressed, they sat at the small wooden table to eat. Cesare poured his sister a fine wine he had brought and raised his goblet to toast. “To your happiness, my dear sister,” he said, smiling. He always felt so safe with Lucrezia, so loved and accepted. He could not imagine a life without her.

He had brought a long loaf of freshly baked bread with a crisp golden crust from Rome—the very kind he knew his sister favored—and it lay alongside several wheels of fresh cheese. As he broke the bread and sliced the cheese to serve her, Cesare said, “I do hope that I will manage to control the way I feel when Juan appears again in Rome. For it takes all my restraint to treat him as a brother.”

With a coy smile, Lucrezia said, “He may have what you want, Chez, but he doesn’t have what you have . . . ”

“I know that, my sweet,” he said, kissing her nose. “I do know that, and it is my salvation.”

Juan Borgia arrived in Rome to great celebration. He rode through the streets poised on a chestnut bay mare draped in a cloth of gold; in his hands he held the reins of her bridle, encrusted with fine jewels. He wore a rich brown velvet suit and a cape studded with precious emeralds. His dark eyes glittered with power, and his lips were set in the insolent smile of an already conquering hero.

When he reached the Vatican, the Pope embraced him, greeting him warmly. “My son, my son,” Alexander repeated, making his way into the Hall of Popes, where he had called a meeting to map the strategy for the papal army.

Long hours were spent in discussion of military tactics with Guido Feltra, Alexander, Juan, Cesare, and Duarte Brandao in attendance.

The gatherings continued for three days. Cesare noticed at these meetings that Duarte seldom addressed Juan directly; if he had a suggestion he addressed it to the Pope, and used Juan’s title, “Captain General,” rather than his name. It was the first time that Cesare suspected Duarte Brandao’s displeasure, and it was so subtle that he was certain only he had noticed.

But that evening, after the final session, as Alexander sat alone with Duarte Brandao, he asked, “You believe it is a mistake to have my son Juan lead our troops against the Orsini?”

Duarte answered with both cleverness and respect. “I believe it is a pity that, by accident of the order of birth, a prince by nature must become a warrior and a true warrior must become a cardinal.”

“But, my friend,” Alexander asked, “do you not believe in destiny? In the plans of our Heavenly Father? In the infallibility of the Pope?”

Duarte Brandao said with good humor, “Who can know of the Heavenly Father’s plan, and are we as mortal men not subject to an occasional error of interpretation? Even the most honorable and virtuous of us?”

“Duarte,” Alexander said, “Pedro Luis, bless his soul, was my firstborn. Cesare is my second son. It is the custom that the second son is called to service in the Holy Church. That plan holds no error in interpretation, for it keeps the power of the royal families in check and yet allows them the advantage of special benefices from our Holy Father. And is a man’s destiny not always both a gift and a burden? For who of us must not struggle with his own free will when praying, ‘Thy will be done, Dear Lord, not mine’?”

Duarte’s good-natured laughter rang out through the great hall. “Your Worthiness, forgive me. And it is with both awe and admiration that I present my point. How can one be certain that your young warrior, Cesare, is but your second son? Your attractiveness to women is legendary, and your vigor of heroic proportions. It is difficult for me to believe that there are not some others, hidden by their mothers, and hidden from you . . . ”

At that, Alexander began to laugh. “You are a brilliant advisor, and a diplomat as well,” he said. “And if the young cardinal’s destiny is to be a holy warrior, the time will come that your argument will serve us. But for now it is Juan who is the captain general, and he must lead our troops. And so, for the present time, we must bend our knees and pray for victory.”

Twenty-one-year-old Cesare, standing outside the Hall of Popes, clothed in the garments of a cardinal, overheard this conversation, and for the first time in memory he felt a certain hope. Was it possible that above all the treachery in the world, there truly was a heaven and a Father who had heard? He walked back to his apartments, his head filled with imaginings, for the first time daring to anticipate the day when he might be called upon to lead the troops of Rome.

Captain General Juan Borgia, and the condottiere Guido Feltra, led the papal army north from Rome toward the first of the Orsini castles. Though the Orsini were fierce soldiers, at this first bastion they were stunned by the sheer number of papal troops, and so the first two castles fell without a battle.

When the news was brought to Duarte, he met with Alexander. “I suspect this is a plan of the Orsini, to trick our new commanders into believing that this will be an easy victory. Only then will the Orsini show their true abilities.”

Alexander nodded. “Then you have little confidence in Feltra?”

“I have seen the Orsini in battle . . . ” Duarte said.

Cesare had been called by Alexander, for his father knew his skill in strategy. And now the Pope asked him, “You may speak the truth. To what do you ascribe the greatest danger in this situation?”

Careful to keep his emotions in check, Cesare responded with caution. “I fear that Feltra is not more skilled at military matters than the captain general. And I anticipate that this easy victory will place both off guard—leading to disaster at Bracciano, for there the Orsini will assemble their finest warriors. And there della Rovere will inspire them to think it a holy war, which will make them even stronger.”

The Pope marveled at this son’s assessment of the situation, but he did not yet know how accurate Cesare was. For it was not more than a few days before the Orsini resistance stiffened, and della Rovere, the most dangerous enemy of the Pope, called upon the distinguished artillery commander Vito Vitelli to raise an army to rescue the Orsini.

Vitelli’s army moved quickly and descended upon the papal army at Soriano. There both Juan and Guido Feltra proved hopelessly incapable, and the papal forces suffered a stunning defeat. Guido Feltra was captured, taken prisoner, and thrown in a dungeon in one of the Orsini castles. Juan fled, escaping serious injury with only a cut to his face.

Hearing of this, and reassuring himself that his son was not badly hurt, Alexander again called Cesare and Duarte into the Hall of Popes.

“The war is not lost,” Duarte reassured him, “for we have other resources available to us.”

Cesare added, “And if the Holy Father determines we are in serious danger, he can always call in Gonsalvo de Córdoba’s experienced Spanish troops from Naples . . . ”

But after meeting with the ambassadors of Spain, France, and Venice—all of them urging peace—Pope Alexander, always a diplomat, agreed reluctantly to return the surrendered castles to the Orsini. Of course, they must be made to pay a price for this arrangement. After much negotiation, the Pope accepted fifty thousand ducats. For, after all, such compensation was necessary to fill the coffers of the Holy Catholic Church.

The outcome seemed a victory for the Pope. But when Juan returned, he complained bitterly that he had been stopped from his future conquests and deprived of the properties he would retain by Alexander’s agreements. Therefore, he argued, it was he who deserved the fifty thousand ducats for his embarrassment. To Cesare’s dismay, Alexander yielded.

But there was even more serious a problem, in Cesare’s mind. In order to repair his reputation, Juan insisted on being assigned the task of retaking Ostia from the French army left there by King Charles.

Cesare rushed to his father’s chambers to plead with him. “Father, there are only a few French troops left, I know that. But if there is a way to lose, Juan will, and with his defeat will come the damnation of the papacy and the Borgia family. For della Rovere is there, setting a trap, waiting for just such folly.”

Alexander sighed. “Cesare, we have been over this time and again. Do you think your father such a fool that he cannot see what you can? This time I will assure a victory. I will call on Gonsalvo de Córdoba—for there is no better captain in the world.”

Cesare’s voice was filled with frustration. “That will not stop my brother. He will interfere. He will struggle with de Córdoba—you know he will. I beg of you, Holy Father, rethink your position.”

But Alexander was adamant. “Juan will do no such thing. I have sent explicit instructions. He will simply ride out of Rome as the head of papal forces, and when the battle is over and we have won, he will ride back in victory, accompanied by the waving Borgia flag. Between those two shows of splendor he will give neither orders nor suggestions.”

Juan obeyed his father. He rode out of the city on a spirited black charger, waving his cap to the crowds of Roman citizens who lined the streets along his way, and as he had been ordered, he played no role in the well-directed battle for Ostia.

Gonsalvo de Córdoba’s men quickly overthrew the French garrison and conquered the city of Ostia, without any interference. And Juan rode back into the city of Rome, just as he had left it, this time to the cheers and shouts of victory from the throngs of Roman citizens lining the streets.

Three nights later at the Palazzo Borgia, Cardinal Ascanio Sforza held a huge ball to which he invited many important guests, including Alexander’s children. Also in Rome at the time were the Medici brothers, Piero and Gio, Cesare’s friend from the University; the Medici had been driven from their homes in Florence by the French, and the preachings of Savonarola.

Cardinal Sforza’s massive palace had been the home of the Borgia while Rodrigo was still cardinal, but it was given as a gift to Ascanio when he became Pope. Everyone agreed it was the most beautiful palace in all of Rome.

That night Cesare returned to his father’s former home with his friends, with whom he had spent the night before eating, gambling, and drinking in the city.

The walls of the vast entrance hall were hung with elaborate tapestries, thick with rich threads that brought the many great moments of history to life. Off this hall were many rooms also hung with intricate tapestries, their floors covered with priceless oriental carpets in colors that matched the velvet and satin seat coverings and complemented the ornately carved wooden cabinets, dressers, and tables.

But on this evening the great hall had been made into a ballroom, with a small orchestra playing from the mezzanine to accompany the many fine young couples as they danced.

Cesare, who was in the company of a beautiful and popular courtesan, had just finished dancing when Gonsalvo de Córdoba approached him. De Córdoba, a strong and always serious man, looked particularly disturbed on this night. He bowed in greeting and then asked Cesare if they might speak in private.

Cesare excused himself and led the Spanish captain to one of the open balconies on which he had played as a child. The balcony overlooked a private courtyard; beneath it several guests were milling around, talking and laughing while they ate hors d’oeuvres and drank the thick red wines being offered on bright silver trays by the servants.

But the merriment of the night was offset by the disposition of de Córdoba, whose usually pleasant face was contorted with anger. “Cesare, I am more furious with your brother than you can know. More than anyone can know.”

Cesare put his hand on the captain’s shoulder in a gesture of friendship and reassurance. “What has my brother done now?” he asked.

The captain’s voice was hoarse with tension. “Do you understand that your brother had no hand in the fighting at Ostia?”

Cesare smiled broadly. “Yes, I assumed that, dear captain. For we won.”

“And are you aware that Juan has been taking credit, claiming victory for this conquest?” Cesare listened with a sympathetic expression as the captain fumed on. “Juan describes it everywhere he goes, saying it was he—not even we—who put the French to flight.”

“He is an empty-headed braggart,” Cesare said, “and his claims are ridiculous. There is no one in Rome who would believe him. But let us reason what can be done to correct this terrible injustice.”

Gonsalvo, still furious, would not be mollified. “In Spain, I would certainly challenge him to a duel. But here . . . ” and he stopped to catch his breath. “Did you know that arrogant fool has actually commissioned the casting of a bronze medal to be distributed in his honor?”

Cesare frowned. “A medal?” he repeated, surprised. He had heard nothing of it.

“It will bear his profile. Beneath it, in elaborately carved letters, the inscription will read, ‘Juan Borgia—Victor of Ostia.’ ”

Cesare was tempted to laugh at his brother’s absurdity, but restrained himself in order not to inflame Gonsalvo further. Then he said, “There is not a soldier in the papal army, and certainly not one of the French troops, who does not know the truth. That you, Gonsalvo de Córdoba, and only you, are the victor of Ostia.”

But the Spanish captain would not be consoled. Instead, he turned to Cesare with a look of rage. “Juan Borgia? Victor of Ostia? We will see! I should kill him. I may still . . . ” Then he turned and walked away from the balcony back into the palazzo.

Cesare remained for several moments after de Córdoba’s departure, staring into the dark night sky, and wondered how it was that he and this one they called his brother could have emerged from the same womb. It was a trick of fate, he was certain. But just before he turned back to enter the ballroom, something in the courtyard caught his attention.

Below him, standing around the central fountain and speaking in voices too low for him to hear, Cesare saw his brother Jofre talking to the Spanish captain and a younger man, tall and lean. De Córdoba was listening intently, fully engaged, while the younger man seemed to be looking around the courtyard as though searching for someone. But it was Jofre, usually so amiable and apathetic, who most startled Cesare. For on his face he wore an expression of ferociousness that Cesare had never before seen.

Cesare thought of calling out to them, until he felt a hand on his arm. Standing behind him, his finger to his lips, Don Michelotto pulled Cesare back from the ledge of the balcony to a place where they would not be seen. Hidden in the shadows, they watched for several moments until they saw the captain smile and shake young Jofre’s hand. When Jofre reached for the hand of the younger man, Michelotto noticed a large, irregularly shaped blue topaz ring, which glistened in sharp shards caught by the light of the moon. He pointed it out. “Take notice, Cesare. For that man is Vanni, an Orsini nephew.” And then, just as quickly as he had appeared, Michelotto was gone.

Inside the palazzo again, Cesare walked through the rooms trying to find Jofre, but he seemed to have disappeared. He nodded at his sister Lucrezia, who was dancing with that fool husband of hers, Giovanni; nearby, completely unaware of the chaos he was causing, Juan was dancing with his sister-in-law, Sancia. Both were laughing and having a wonderful time. But what concerned Cesare most was de Córdoba as he left the ball—for suddenly he seemed at peace.