12

VANOZZA CATTANEI’S GUESTS sat at the gaily colored banquet tables and watched the blazing sun descend over the red stone ruins of the Roman Forum. She had invited several friends, as well as her children, to her country estate for a gathering in celebration of Cesare’s departure for Naples the following week as the papal delegate.

Vanozza’s Vineyard, as her children affectionately called it, sat on the nearly deserted Esquiline Hill opposite the stately fifth-century Church of San Pietro.

Juan, Jofre, and Cesare sat together for once, laughing and enjoying themselves. Then Cesare noticed his mother, across the courtyard, talking quite intimately with a young Swiss guard. He smiled to himself, for she was still quite beautiful. Though she was tall she was delicately built, with clear olive skin and rich auburn hair that as yet showed no silver. She looked splendid in a long black silk dress adorned with a single strand of South Sea pearls, a special gift from Alexander.

Cesare adored his mother, was proud of her beauty, intelligence, and obvious skill in business. For she was as successful with her inns as any man in the city of Rome. He looked again at the young guard, and in his heart he wished his mother well, for if she could still enjoy an active love, that is what he wished for her.

On this night, Vanozza brought in two senior chefs from her inns in the city to prepare a large variety of delectable dishes. They sautéed savory goose liver with sliced apples and raisins, simmered freshly caught lobster in a delicate tomato, basil, and cream sauce, and pan-fried tender veal scallops with rich truffles taken from the earth and fresh green olives plucked ripe from the local trees.

Some of the younger cardinals, including Gio Medici, shouted with enthusiasm as each new platter was served. Cardinal Ascanio Sforza remained sedate, but managed to help himself to more than one serving of each new dish, as did Alexander’s cousin, the cardinal of Monreal.

Large porcelain carafes of wine, made from the plump burgundy grapes of Vanozza’s own vineyards, were served during the meal, and Juan drank each goblet that was poured for him, hardly waiting for the first to be emptied before he lifted the next to his lips. During the meal, a very thin young man wearing a black mask sat down alongside him and whispered something in his ear.

Cesare had seen the masked man at the Vatican several times during the last month in the company of his brother, but when he had inquired about the stranger, no one seemed to know him. And when he asked Juan, Juan just laughed sardonically and walked away. Cesare assumed the young man was an eccentric artist from one of the city ghettos, where Juan often went to bed whores and squander his money.

Now, with his tunic unbuttoned and his hair matted with sweat, Juan stood up shakily—for he was quite drunk—and prepared to make a toast. He raised his goblet and held it before him, tipping it so the wine began to spill. Jofre reached to help steady it, but Juan roughly pushed him away. Then, with slurring speech, he turned to Cesare and said, “Here’s to my brother’s escape from the French. To his skill at avoiding danger wherever it arises. Whether it be by wearing a cardinal’s hat or fleeing the French. Some call it daring . . . I call it cowardice . . . ” and he began to laugh loudly.

Cesare leapt to his feet, his hand on his sword. He started for Juan, but his old friend Gio Medici grabbed him, and, with the help of Jofre and the pleas of Vanozza, succeeded in holding him back.

Vanozza pleaded with her son. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying, Cesare. He doesn’t mean it.”

Cesare responded with blazing eyes and a set chin. “He knows, Mother, and if it were not your home, I’d kill the insolent bastard at this very moment—though he is my brother and your son.”

Still shaken by his fury, Cesare allowed Gio to guide him back to his seat. The guests, their enthusiasm tempered by the discord of the brothers, sat now in quiet conversation.

Then the masked man stood, and once again whispered something to Juan. And Juan, sobered by his brother’s anger, rose more steadily and announced, “You must excuse me, for I have another appointment I must honor.”

Helped into his dark blue velvet cloak by his page, he quickly left the party accompanied by one of his squires and the tall masked man.

Soon afterward the rest of the party disbanded, and Cesare left with his brother Jofre, Gio, and Ascanio Sforza. As they rode away on horseback, Cesare waved good-bye to his mother, Vanozza, who was left with the young Swiss guard for company.

The men rode swiftly toward the city. Once they passed through the gates of Rome—at the crossroads in front of the Borgia Palace—they talked for quite a while about the incident with Juan. Cesare made it known he could not tolerate his brother’s drunken arrogance and lack of family loyalty. He was determined to speak to Juan again, to impress upon him the seriousness of the incident at Vanozza’s. He wanted to reason with Juan first, but if he had to, he would challenge him to duel to settle things once and for all. Juan knew that in a duel, Cesare was the more skilled, and Juan would be forced to repent his ridiculous conduct—not only with Cesare, but with all those others he had injured, bringing scandal upon the entire Borgia family.

Cesare also knew that it was Juan, not he, who was a coward, no matter his reckless accusations. In any battle, of wills or swords, Cesare would prevail.

Cardinal Ascanio Sforza complained as well—for only a few nights before, when Juan was again drunk, he had slain Ascanio’s majordomo, unprovoked. Ascanio was still displeased about it, and swore that if he had not been wearing the red hat of a cardinal, and did not fear retaliation from the Pope, he himself would have settled the debt with Juan.

Sixteen-year-old Jofre never said a word against Juan, yet Cesare knew he was angry at his brother, for he was not ignorant of Sancia’s relationship with Juan. He was a puzzle, this younger brother. At first, because his expression was so bland, he seemed less than bright. But Cesare had witnessed his transformation in the presence of de Córdoba that night in the garden, and would never see him in the same way again.

After they bid Ascanio good night, and Gio Medici left for his palace, Jofre told Cesare, “I think I will pay a visit to the ghetto and spend a few hours with a woman who will respond to my affections.”

Cesare smiled at him, and slapped his shoulder with encouragement. “You’ll get no argument from me, little brother,” he said, laughing. “Have a pleasant night.”

Cesare watched as his brother rode away. It was then that he witnessed something that aroused his concern. As young Jofre turned the corner toward the ghetto, three men on horseback slipped out from between the stone buildings behind him and appeared to follow him. One man, taller than the rest, rode a white stallion.

After waiting a few moments so they would take no notice of the gallop of his own horse behind them, Cesare rode to the square above the ghetto. Before him, several streets away, stretched the shadows of four men on horseback, his brother Jofre among them. He could hear them talking, their voices friendly and high-spirited. Convinced that his brother was in no danger, Cesare turned his horse around and returned to the Vatican alone.

 

Cesare had been asleep for hours when a frightful nightmare woke him. Was it the sound of horsemen? He tried to shake himself awake, but the lantern in his chambers had burned out and his room was dark as pitch.

Sweating, with his heart beating fast, he tried to calm himself, but nothing seemed to ease the panic he felt. Blindly, he stood and searched to find a match to strike, but his hands were unsteady and his mind was filled with irrational fears. In a terror, he called aloud for his manservant. But no one came.

Finally, without explanation, his lantern flickered and there was light again. Still half asleep, he sat back on his bed. But now dark shadows surrounded him, reaching toward him from the walls. Cesare wrapped a blanket around himself, for he felt cold as ice, and could not control the shivering of his body. Then, from nowhere, he heard the voice of Noni in his ears: “There is death in your house . . . ”

He tried to shake the feeling, to dismiss the voice, but his mind was filled with dread. Could Crezia be in danger? No, he reassured himself. A convent was a safe place for her to be—her father had seen to that, by sending Don Michelotto to set a guard around the convent, carefully hidden so as not to alarm or enrage Lucrezia any further. Next he thought of Jofre. But remembering the sound of his voice with his companions, Cesare was reassured.

Juan? God knows, if there was any justice in the heavens, danger to Juan would cause him no nightmares. But then Cesare was seized with worry concerning his father. What would become of him if anything happened to Juan?

Cesare dressed quickly and approached the Pope’s chambers. Standing before his father’s room, two soldiers of the Holy Guard stood at attention, one on each side of the heavy metal doors.

“Is the Holy Father resting well?” Cesare asked, struggling to maintain his composure.

It was Jacamino, his father’s favorite manservant, who answered from the anteroom. “He was sleeping only moments ago,” he said. “All is well.”

Cesare returned to his own chambers. Yet his restlessness persisted, and there was nothing left for him to do but ride out into the country, as he always did when the beat of his heart threatened to burst through his skin. He raced to the stables, and he was about to mount his favorite stallion when he saw Jofre’s horse being rubbed down by one of the grooms. He noticed thick red river clay on the horse’s shoes.

“So my brother Jofre has returned safely home?” Cesare asked.

“Yes, Cardinal,” the young boy said.

“And my brother Juan? Has he returned?”

“No, Cardinal,” the young boy said. “Not at this time.”

 

Cesare left the city with a sense of foreboding. He did not know what he was looking for, but still he rode as though possessed by a demon. Everything around him appeared as though in a dream. It was in this altered state of mind that he rode through the country along the riverside, looking for his brother Juan.

The night was cool and damp, and the smell of salt from the Tiber cleared his head and calmed him. He searched the shores for evidence of disorder, but found none, and after a few hours of riding he reached the red clay of the riverside. Across from one of the large fishing docks there stood the palace of Count Mirandella, and a hospital with lanterns flickering in the windows. Still, all seemed quiet.

Cesare dismounted, looking around for someone who could have seen his brother. But both the dock and the shore seemed deserted, and the only sounds he heard were the splashing of the fish as they leapt through the shimmering glasslike surface of the river.

Cesare walked to the end of the dock and stood looking across the water. There were a few fishing boats anchored there, and the crews were either out at one of the local pubs in the village or deep asleep in the bowels of the boats. He thought how it might be to live as a fisherman, when the only thing to do each day was to throw a net and wait for the invited fish to come. He smiled then, feeling more at peace.

He was about to turn and leave when he noticed a small boat moored against the stack of timber logs, a man asleep inside. “Signor? Signor?” Cesare called.

As he walked toward the boat, the man sat up and looked at him warily. “I am Cardinal Borgia,” Cesare said. “And I’m inquiring about my brother, the captain general. Did you observe anything that would cause you suspicion earlier this night?”

As Cesare stood talking to the fisherman, he spun a gold ducat between his fingers.

Seeing the coin, the man, whose name was Giorgio, was persuaded to talk freely to Cesare.

After half an hour, before he took leave of the fisherman, Cesare thanked him and handed him the gold piece. “No one must know we have spoken,” he said. “I count on you for that.”

“I have already forgotten, Cardinal,” Giorgio vowed.

Cesare rode back to the Vatican. But he told no one what he had learned.

 

Pope Alexander awakened earlier than usual, with a feeling of uneasiness. He had called a meeting to review the military strategy that would be used in the upcoming battles, and was convinced that his discomfort might have arisen from his anxiety over their outcome.

After kneeling for morning vespers, praying for divine guidance, he arrived at the meeting to find only Duarte Brandao in attendance.

“Where are my sons, Duarte?” the Pope asked. “It is time to begin.”

Duarte dreaded what he must tell Alexander. He had been awakened before dawn by a manservant of the captain general, who told Duarte that his master had not returned from his dinner at the vineyard. Even more ominous, the squire who had accompanied him was also missing.

Duarte had reassured the servant, instructing him to go back to the captain general’s apartments, and inform him when the Pope’s son arrived. But Duarte felt something strange in the air, and was unable to return to sleep. After lying awake for long moments, he finally got out of bed, dressed quickly, and before the golden light of day cut through the black night sky he rode through the streets of Rome, asking in the ghetto if anyone had seen Juan Borgia. But no one had.

When Duarte returned to the Vatican, he immediately woke Cesare to ask when Juan was last seen.

“He rode away from the party with his squire and the masked man,” Cesare said. “He was meant to be returning to the Vatican. His squire was instructed to make certain he arrived, for he was still quite intoxicated.”

“I have been unable to find the squire who accompanied him,” Duarte told Cesare. “And I, myself, have searched all of the city looking for Juan.”

“I will dress immediately,” Cesare said. “In the event my father has need of me.”

But Duarte noticed, as he left Cesare’s apartments, that Cesare’s boots were still wet and covered with fresh red mud.

 

After several hours more, Alexander became increasingly upset about Juan’s absence. He paced back and forth within his chambers, golden rosary in hand. “That boy is impossible,” he told Duarte. “We must find him. He has much to answer for.”

Duarte tried to reassure the Pope. “He is young, Your Holiness, and the city is filled with pretty women. He may be passed out in some bedroom in Trastevere that we have not yet discovered.”

Alexander nodded, but then Cesare entered with sinister news. “Father, Juan’s squire has been found, mortally wounded, and it seems the wounds inflicted are so dreadful that he is unable to speak.”

“I will go to this man, and ask about my son,” the Pope said, “for if this man can speak to anyone, he will speak to me.”

Cesare’s head was bowed, and his voice was low. “Not without a tongue, Father.”

The Pope felt his knees weaken.

“And he is too wounded to pen this information?” the Pope asked.

“He cannot, Father,” Cesare said. “For he is without fingers.”

“Where was this squire found?” the Pope asked his son.

“In the Piazza della Giudecca,” Cesare said, “and he must have lain there for hours, in front of hundreds of passersby, who in their fear did not report the incident.”

“And there is still no news of your brother?” Alexander asked, now, sitting down.

“No, Father,” Cesare said. “There has been no word.”

 

After they rode throughout Rome gathering information from the captains of the Holy Guard, the commander of the Spanish force, and the Swiss Guard, as well as the foot police in the city, both Cesare and Duarte returned to the Vatican.

Alexander was still sitting silently, his golden rosary beads now clutched tight between his fingers. When they entered the Pope’s chambers, Cesare looked toward Duarte Brandao. He felt it would be kinder to his father to hear the most recent news from a trusted friend.

Duarte stood next to the Pope and placed a strong hand on his shoulder to help brace him. “It has in these last moments been brought to my attention, Your Holiness, that the captain general’s horse has been found, wandering with one stirrup cut by what appears to be a sword.”

The Pope felt his breath taken away, as though he had received a sharp blow to the stomach. “And the rider?” he asked softly.

“No rider was found, Father,” Cesare said.

Pope Alexander lifted his head, his eyes clouded, and turned to Cesare. “Call together the Holy Guard and have them search the streets and the countryside outside Rome. Tell them they are forbidden to return until they have found my son.”

Cesare left, as he was asked, to instruct the troops. In the hallway to the palace he passed his brother Jofre. “Juan is gone,” Cesare said, “and Father is desolate. I would speak very carefully if I were you, and under no circumstances allow him to know your whereabouts last evening.”

Jofre nodded to his brother, and said, “I understand.”

But he offered nothing more.

 

Rumors spread throughout the city about the Pope’s son Juan: that he was missing, and that the Pope was in severe distress, threatening dire punishment if it were found that he had been harmed.

Storefronts were boarded up and shops shut down as Spanish soldiers ran through the streets with swords drawn. The enemies of Alexander, including the Orsini and the Colonna, fearing they would be blamed, also took up arms. Runners were sent into all the alleys in the city of Rome to search, and all soldiers were threatened with death should Juan not be found.

Early the following morning, the police awoke a fisherman they discovered sleeping on his boat. His name was Giorgio Schiavi, and he claimed that on the night of the party he had seen four riders, one of them masked. He had watched from his boat as a fifth horse was brought forward—a body draped across its back—and led to the place in the Tiber where the filth of the city was dumped. There the body was lifted from the horse, and heaved into the river.

The police asked, “What did these men look like? What can you tell us?”

Giorgio said, “It was very dark . . . ”

On further questioning, he admitted that he had heard the voice of one, the master, order the others to throw several stones upon the corpse when his blue velvet cape floated to the surface. And he told them, of course, that one of the horses was white.

But he kept his vow to the cardinal, and never described the man who had spoken, the man who had been there. When the police became more aggressive, asking why he had not reported such a happening, Giorgio replied, annoyed, “I’ve seen hundreds of bodies thrown into the Tiber over these past years. To report each time to the police would leave me no time to fish, nor to eat!”

 

By noon, divers searched the riverbed from bank to bank with dragging nets and huge grappling hooks. But it was three o’clock before one of the hooks thrown by a local fisherman caught on something solid, and a bloated body floated to the surface, face up, with a blue velvet cloak swirling around in the current.

He still wore his boots and spurs. His gloves were tucked in his belt, and his purse contained thirty ducats, so the motive had not been to rob him. But once he was taken from the water and examined, it was found that he had nine deep stab wounds in his body, and that his throat had been slashed.

Duarte Brandao came to identify the body. There was no question. It was the Pope’s son, Juan Borgia.

 

Juan’s body was taken by boat at once to the Castel Sant’ Angelo. And on seeing the corpse of his favorite son Alexander fell to his knees, distraught and distracted by grief. He sobbed and sobbed, so that his cries to his God could be heard throughout the Vatican.

When Alexander was able to collect himself, he ordered the funeral to be held that very evening. Juan’s body was prepared and laid out in state, dressed in the rich brocade uniform of the captain general of the Holy Roman Catholic Church.

At six o’clock that evening, Juan, looking handsome and as though asleep, was placed on a magnificent bier and carried by the noblemen of his household across the bridge while the Pope stood alone, watching from the tower of Castel Sant’ Angelo.

The procession was led by 120 torch and shield bearers, followed by hundreds of church chamberlains and ecclesiastics, weeping and in great disorder.

That night, accompanied by a thousand mourners, all carrying torches, borne between lines of Spanish troopers, their unsheathed swords held before them, the procession reached the Church of Santa Maria del Popolo, where Juan was laid to rest in the chapel his mother, Vanozza, had prepared as her own tomb.

 

Alexander was still in the throes of great grief when, immediately after the funeral, he called for his son Cesare to come to his chambers.

Anxious to be of help to his father, Cesare went at once.

Entering the Pope’s private study, he found Alexander sitting at his desk, his face pale, his eyes rimmed red from weeping. Cesare had only seen him like this once before—when he was a child and Juan’s life was in danger. He wondered in that moment whether prayer could ever change destiny, but rather just postpone the inescapable.

When Alexander saw this son, in the darkness of his dimly lit room, he approached Cesare, positioning his mountainous body just inches away. He was beside himself with grief and rage. He had always known that Cesare had no love for his brother; he understood that Juan had taken the life that Cesare wanted for himself. He’d heard that they had quarreled bitterly two nights before at Vanozza’s, the night Juan disappeared. Now he wanted the truth from Cesare. And he spoke in a harsh, commanding tone. “Swear to me that you did not kill your brother. Swear on your immortal soul. And know if you keep the truth from me, you will burn in hell forever.”

The shock of his father’s accusation almost took his breath away. In truth, he was not sorry his brother was dead. But it was also the truth that he himself did not kill Juan. And yet he could not blame his father for suspecting him.

Cesare moved even closer, locking his eyes with his father’s gaze. He put his hand to his chest, and addressed Alexander with sincerity. “Father, I did not kill my brother. I swear to it. And if I am not speaking the truth, I shall willingly burn in hell forever.” He saw the confusion in the face of the Pope, and so he repeated the words. “I did not kill Juan.”

It was the Pope who looked away first. He sat again then, seemed to collapse into his large leather chair, his hand over his eyes. When he spoke his voice was soft and sad. “Thank you. Thank you, my son,” he said. “As you can see I am desolate over the loss of my boy. And I am enormously relieved by what you have said. For I must tell you—and these are not the words of a grieving father that may be dismissed—that if you had killed your brother, I would have had the limbs torn from your body. Now leave me, for I must pray and try to find some solace in my grief.”

 

There is a time in every human life when a decision one makes helps carve the path to his destiny. It is at that crossroads, without knowing what lies ahead, that a choice is made which influences all events to follow. And so it was that Cesare chose not to tell his father about the fisherman who found the blue topaz ring—and that he knew his brother Jofre had killed his brother Juan. For what possible purpose could telling him serve?

Juan had brought his fate upon himself. That Jofre was used as an instrument of justice seemed a fit outcome of Juan’s pathetic life. He had contributed nothing to the Borgia family; on the contrary, he had endangered them. And so Jofre’s murder of his brother seemed a fitting penance for the many Borgia sins.

It was not that he was surprised to find his father suspected him, though the impact of Alexander’s doubting his allegiance and love wounded Cesare more than he had imagined it could.

But if Alexander chose to blame him, then that was how it must be, for to strike back at his father with the truth would only wound him more. As the Holy Father, the Pope must be infallible, for it was that infallibility that held his power. In this case, Cesare reasoned, the truth would deny the very quality that was the mainstay of the papacy.

Cesare knew his father doubted him, but would it serve to have his father doubt himself? No, that would weaken him. And in so doing, it would weaken the entire Borgia family. This Cesare could never allow.

And so it was, with Juan’s death, and his decision, that Cesare assumed the mantle of guardianship for Rome, as well as for the family.

 

Lucrezia was praying before the large marble statue in the chapel of the Convent of San Sisto when she was summoned by one of the young nuns, a nervous young girl from one of the royal families of Naples. There were as many wealthy young women from the aristocratic families of Europe sent to the convents for sanctuary as there were poor peasant girls who had a true religious calling. Both served the church. The families of the wealthy girls paid large sums to the church, and the peasant girls prayed for the salvation of the wealthy.

Now the young girl stuttered as she told Lucrezia that someone was waiting for her with an important message.

Lucrezia, her heart already racing with apprehension, walked as fast as she could, her shoes echoing on the stone pathways of the empty corridors.

She was wearing a simple gray wool dress with a high waist, and over it a plain cotton jumper. Thank God, she thought each morning as she dressed, that the clothes were large and unflattering enough that they hid her belly, which was becoming fuller each day.

A thousand thoughts ran through her mind in the minutes it took her to reach the entrance hall. Was her father well? Her brother Cesare? Had he been unable to live without her these many months, and gone away for good? Or was it just another message from the Holy Father, her father, pleading with her to return to Rome and take up her place again in the court?

She had opened only one of those messages the young page, Perotto, had brought to her. After that she feared it was all the same: her father demanding her obedience, and Lucrezia herself being unable to obey even if she wanted to. It certainly would not serve anyone to show herself in such condition, especially since she knew from young Perotto that her father had insisted on the annulment of her marriage to Giovanni on the grounds of impotence. She patted her belly gently as she walked. “And how then will he explain you to everyone?”

The entrance hall was stark and cold, with bare marble floors, windows covered with dark curtains, and several crucifixes hanging on the unadorned walls. When Lucrezia reached it, she stopped, stunned by what she saw. Her brother Cesare, dressed in his ecclesiastical vestments, awaited her alone in the front hall.

She was so happy to see him that she rushed to him, throwing herself upon him, not caring if anyone saw them. But Cesare pushed her away, stood her in front of him and looked at her sternly, his handsome face in a scowl.

“Chez?” she said, almost in tears. “What is it?” She could not believe he had noticed so soon, or heard about her condition from anyone else. But as she stood before her brother, a thousand thoughts running through her mind, he bent his head and said, “Juan is dead. He was murdered in the night.”

Her knees failing her, Lucrezia fell forward, almost hitting the hard marble floor before Cesare caught her. Kneeling next to her, he noticed the paleness of her skin, the small vessels in her closed eyelids more prominent than ever before. He called to her gently—“Crezia, Crezia . . . ”—but she wouldn’t wake. Then, removing his velvet cape, he placed it on the floor and rested her head upon it.

Lucrezia’s eyes fluttered and began to open just as Cesare ran his hand over her belly to soothe her, to wake her. And as her eyes began to focus, all she could see were his eyes.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked.

“It is a terrible nightmare,” she said. “Juan is dead? And Father? Is Father able to bear it?”

“Not well,” Cesare said to her. But then he placed his hand on her stomach and frowned. “There is a change in your condition that I was unaware of.”

“Yes.”

“With Father pursuing an annulment, this has not come at the most fortuitous time. Now no one will believe that swine Giovanni is impotent, and your annulment will not be granted.”

Lucrezia sat up quickly. There was an edge to her brother’s voice; he was displeased with her. She was still shattered by the news of the death of her brother Juan, and now to have Cesare angry with her confused her. “My condition has nothing to do with Giovanni,” she said coolly. “I bedded him once, and that was on a marriage bed.”

Cesare looked angry, “Now what scoundrel shall I slay?”

Lucrezia reached up to touch her brother’s cheek. “This child is yours, my sweet,” she said. “And can it be more bitter?”

He stared silent and thoughtful for long minutes.

Then he said, “I must rid myself of the hat of a cardinal. For no child of mine shall be a bastard.”

Lucrezia covered his lips with her finger. “But no child of yours can ever be mine.”

“We must think, and we must plan,” he said. “Does anyone else know?”

“Not a soul,” Lucrezia said. “For on the day I was certain, I left Rome.”

 

The Pope locked himself away after Juan’s death. Despite the pleas of Duarte, Don Michelotto, Cesare, and all those who loved him, he refused to eat, or to speak to anyone for days—not even Julia. From outside his chambers his prayers could be heard, and his shrieks of remorse as he begged for forgiveness.

But first he shook his fist and ranted at God. “Heavenly Father, of what benefit is saving the souls of thousands when the loss of this one is the cause of so much pain?” Alexander raged on and on. “To punish me for the loss of virtue, with the life of my son, is unjust. A man is subject to human frailty, but a God is meant to be merciful! ” He sounded as though lunacy had taken hold of him.

Those cardinals whom he favored took turns knocking on the doors to his chambers to beg for entry, to help him in his suffering. But again and again he refused. Finally, a shout was heard throughout the Vatican. “Yes, yes, Heavenly Father, I know—Your Son was martyred too . . . ” And there was silence for two days more.

When Alexander finally opened the doors to his chambers he was thin and pale, but still he seemed at peace. He announced to all who waited: “I have made a vow to the Madonna to reform the church, and I will begin immediately. Call the consistory together so I may address them.”

The Pope proclaimed his love for his son publicly, and told the cardinals in attendance that he would give up seven tiaras to have him back. But because that was not possible, he said, he would instead initiate reform of the church, as Juan’s murder had awakened him and made him all too aware of his own sins.

His anguish was apparent as he talked about his grief, and as he confessed his own wickedness and the wickedness of his family he swore to make amends. He told the entire gathering of cardinals and ambassadors that he understood he had offended Providence, and he asked that a committee be set up to make suggestions for change.

The following day, the Pope wrote to the Christian rulers recording both his tragedy and his new understanding of the need for reform. Everyone was so convinced of Alexander’s intention that there were speeches of sympathy given throughout Rome, and both Cardinal della Rovere and the prophet Savonarola, two of the Pope’s greatest enemies, sent letters of condolence.

And so it seemed a new era was about to begin.