18

CESARE SPENT THE following weeks dressed in solemn black, pacing the halls of the Vatican, sullen and angry, as he waited impatiently for his new life to begin. Each day he anxiously marked time as he looked forward to an invitation from Louis XII, king of France. He was restless and wanted to escape the familiar landscape of Rome, to leave behind all memories of his sister, and his life as cardinal.

During these weeks his night terrors returned, and he was reluctant to fall asleep for fear he would wake in a cold sweat with a half-scream upon his lips. No matter how hard he tried to banish his sister from his heart and mind, he was possessed by her. And each time he closed his eyes to try to rest, he imagined making love to her.

When the Pope, with great pleasure, informed him that Lucrezia was pregnant again, he spent the entire day riding through the countryside almost mad with jealousy and rage.

That night, as he tossed and turned in his sleep, a bright yellow flame burst forth in his dreams. Suddenly the sweet face of his sister appeared, and he saw it as a sign, a symbol of their love. It had warmed him, then burned him, but still it burned bright. He made his commitment during that dark night, that he would wear that flame as his personal insignia and place it alongside the Borgia bull. From that day forward, in peace or in war, the flame of his love would now flame his ambition.

Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere had been the most bitter enemy of Pope Alexander for many years. But following his exile to France—after the failed and humiliating attempt to unseat the Pope and align himself with the unfortunate Charles VIII—della Rovere discovered that his contentious attitude had brought him nothing but misery. A man like himself was much more comfortable in the cramped and crowded passages of the Vatican, where he could make subtle plans for his own future and assess his position while speaking directly to both his friends and enemies. There, in an expression of a face or an inflection of a voice, he could learn more than from all the written agreements.

Once della Rovere determined that his stance against the Pope no longer served to his advantage, he was quick to attempt a reconciliation. The opportunity had come with the death of the Pope’s son Juan, when he penned a letter of condolence to Alexander. The Pope’s grief, and his resolution to reform himself as well as the Church, had moved him to accept the cardinal’s message with grace. When the Pope wrote back it was with appreciation, and an invitation for Cardinal della Rovere to act as papal delegate in France. For even in his desolation the Pope was aware of della Rovere’s importance in the court, and envisioned that he might one day have to call upon him for assistance.

When at last Cesare received the invitation to visit King Louis at Chinon, he had two important missions to accomplish: First he must bring the requested papal dispensation to the king—and then he must convince Princess Rosetta to be his wife.

Alexander called him into his chambers before he was to leave for France. After embracing his son, he handed Cesare the parchment with the red wax papal seal. “This is the dispensation for the king, annulling his marriage and permitting him to marry Queen Anne of Brittany. It is most important, for this is not only the case of a man who wishes a more beautiful wife, but rather, a delicate political matter. For if the king cannot marry Anne, she will withdraw Brittany from the control of the French, which will be a serious blow to Louis’s plan for ‘la grandeur de la France.’ ”

“Can he not just divorce Jeanne or prove grounds for annulment?” Cesare asked.

Alexander smiled. “It would seem a simple matter, but it is not. For though Jeanne of France is short and misshapen, she has true stature, and a clever mind. She has brought in witnesses who swear they heard Louis state publicly that he mounted her more than three times on their marriage night. To add to that, he claims to have been less than fourteen, beneath the age of consent, but no one can be found who will swear to the date of his birth.”

“And how will you solve this problem?” Cesare asked slyly.

“Ah,” Alexander said, sighing. “To be a Pope, and infallible, is a true blessing. I will just place his age where I feel it must be, and state any evidence to the contrary to be false.”

“Is there anything more I must carry to France to ensure my welcome?” Cesare asked.

Alexander’s voice grew serious. “The red hat of a cardinal for our friend Georges d’Amboise.”

“D’Amboise wants to be a cardinal, but he is a fine ambassador,” Cesare said.

“He wants it desperately,” the Pope said, “but only his mistress is certain of his reasons.”

The Pope embraced Cesare warmly. “I will be quite lost without you, my son. But I have seen to it that you will be treated well. For our papal legate to France, Cardinal della Rovere, will be there to meet you and protect you from any unseen danger. I have given him clear instructions to guard you with great care, and to treat you as a son.”

And so it was that in October, when Cesare arrived by sea in Marseilles accompanied by an enormous entourage, Cardinal della Rovere and his embassy were there to greet him. Cesare was dressed in black velvet and gold brocade, each garment lavishly decorated with delicate jewels and diamonds. His hat was embroidered with gold and plumed with white feathers. Even his horses had shoes of silver, for the papal treasury had been plundered to equip him.

Cardinal della Rovere embraced him and said, “My son, I am here to dedicate myself to your comfort and honor. If there is anything you desire, you may be certain I will provide it.” Della Rovere had managed to convince the Council of Avignon to raise a loan to arrange a fitting reception for the arriving dignitary.

The following day, at a fabled French castle, Cesare’s display was even more outrageous. He wore a white doublet over his velvet black, encrusted with pearls and rubies. His own horse was a dappled gray stallion, its saddle, bridle, and stirrups studded with gold. He was preceded by twenty trumpeters each in scarlet, mounted on white horse, and behind Cesare rode a troop of Swiss cavalry in crimson and gold papal uniforms. They were followed in turn by Cesare’s thirty gentlemen servants, who came before his numerous aides, pages, and other servants, all brilliantly costumed. Last came musicians, jugglers, tumblers, bears, monkeys, and seventy mules bearing the riches of his wardrobe and gifts for the king and members of his court. Such a grand and gaudy parade!

Before he left Rome, Brandao had cautioned him against such excess, telling him that the French would not be impressed by such a display. But Cesare believed he knew better.

Now della Rovere and his envoy took Cesare through the city, rich with hangings and triumphant arches decorated at great expense for his arrival. On the instructions of the cardinal, everyone treated the Pope’s son as a royal prince. He was showered with gifts of silver platters and silver plate, then taken to the Maison de la Ville to enjoy a great celebration.

Della Rovere had invited many of the most beautiful girls and elegant ladies of the city to attend, for it was well known that Cesare enjoyed their company. Several days followed filled with sumptuous banquets and elaborate theater plays, and the nights passed as they drank fine wines amid entertainment and displays of dancing before Cesare and his company.

And for two months afterward it was the same, in every city, in every town. There was not a fair that Cesare did not attend, not a horse race he didn’t bet, not a card game he was absent from.

France was cold that autumn, with bitter winds and lashing hail, yet in every municipality crowds appeared, and Cesare’s arrival attracted great attention. Humility was never one of his virtues, and now, rather than seeing the curiosity of the people for a son of the Pope, he took their attention as a sign of their adoration for him, and his head filled with his new power. He became arrogant and overconfident, alienating those Frenchmen who could truly help him.

Finally Cesare reached the court of France in Chinon, and by then the king was furious. He was anxiously awaiting news of his annulment, and had not been sent any word whether or not the Pope had granted his request.

On the day he arrived Cesare was accompanied by a grand cavalcade, and a long line of heavily laden mules carrying many luxurious adornments. Each animal was covered in rich cloths of yellow and red, bearing the Borgia bull and Cesare’s new insignia, the yellow flame. His envoy was lavishly bejeweled, and on several mules there were immense chests, which filled the citizens’ imaginings. Some said they contained precious jewels for Cesare’s future wife; some said holy shrines and relics for great blessings. Yet none of the aristocracy were impressed. In Italy this gaudy show would have told the tale of great wealth and station, but in France it inspired contempt.

The king himself had a penchant for parsimony, and the court followed his example. Before long Cesare faced laughter in the streets. Filled with a new sense of self-importance, and without either his father’s wisdom or his sister’s good sense to balance him, he remained unaware of their reactions.

At the first sight of Cesare, King Louis whispered to an advisor, “This is all too much.” But still he greeted the Pope’s son with great enthusiasm, and had to keep himself from inquiring immediately about his long-awaited dispensation from Alexander.

As Cesare, accompanied by Georges d’Amboise, passed down the formal reception line to be introduced to important members of the court, he seemed not to concern himself with their expressions of amusement. They could laugh if they wished, but their king must treat him well, for he held within his possession a decision that was critical to their king.

The young aristocrats foolish enough to mock Cesare were given a warning from the king so severe it surprised them. Obviously, they thought, this Borgia was someone the king cared about.

After the introductions had been made, Cesare, Louis, and the ambassador, Georges d’Amboise, retired to a delightful and intimate room in the king’s quarters. Its walls were covered in panels of yellow silk and oak. Tall French windows looked out into a beautiful garden, its delicate splashing fountain abundant with gaily colored birds whose sweet song filled the room.

King Louis began by reassuring Cesare. “You do understand, my dear friend, that French soldiers moving into Italy will in no way challenge papal rights or threaten papal territories. Moreover, if there is any difficulty in unseating the local warlords or vicars in the Romagna, I can assure you that a sizable number of experienced French troops will be readied to assist you.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Cesare said. Pleased by the king’s generosity, Cesare immediately handed Louis the formal papal dispensation.

The king could not hide his delight, and when Cesare passed the wax-sealed parchment to Georges d’Amboise and he read it, his face radiated astonished pleasure at being named a cardinal, and being accepted as a prince of the Holy Mother Church.

Louis himself was now in an expansive mood. In light of the Pope’s generosity, he would make it official: Cesare would be Duke of Valentinois. That title carried with it some of the finest castles and most profitable estates in France. Cesare was greatly relieved, for he had spent far too much on his entourage and he knew he would need to hire troops for his campaign in Romagna. The king’s gift guaranteed he would never again have to concern himself about money.

The three men toasted each other. And then Cesare asked, “How goes the marital alliance?”

Suddenly, Louis seemed uneasy. “There is some problem with the Princess Rosetta. For though she is in France, a lady-in-waiting to my beloved Queen Anne, she is not one of my subjects but the daughter of the king of Naples—of Spanish heritage—therefore a subject of the house of Aragon. And a girl with a mind of her own. I cannot simply order her to marry you.”

Cesare frowned, but then asked, “May I speak with the lady, Your Majesty?”

“Of course,” the king said. “D’Amboise will arrange it.”

Later that afternoon, Cesare and Princess Rosetta sat together on a stone bench in the garden surrounded by the fragrant smell of orange trees.

Rosetta was a tall girl, and not the prettiest that Cesare had seen, but regal in her bearing. Her dark hair, pulled back at the nape of her neck, made her look severe. But she had a pleasant and forthright approach, and was not at all reluctant to discuss their proposed match.

Rosetta smiled gently, but spoke firmly. “I do not wish to offend the duke in any manner, for until this moment, I have never even seen him. But the unfortunate truth is that I am desperately in love with a Breton nobleman, and therefore have no love left to give another.”

Cesare tried to persuade her otherwise. “Often a desperate love is not the most trustworthy match for a life together,” he said.

But Rosetta looked at him unflinchingly. “I must speak candidly, for I believe you are worthy of my trust. You are the son of the Pope, and papal views as well as papal armies are very important to my father. I believe that they are of such supreme importance that, if you insisted, my father would force me to marry you. But I beg you not to do that. I would never be able to love you, for my heart has already been given.” Her eyes filled with tears.

Cesare admired the girl, for she stood for her truth. He handed her his handkerchief. “Not for a moment would I desire to force you into marriage. If my charm cannot win you, then I will not have you as a bride.” He smiled then. “But you have true value as a friend . . . and, if I am ever to fall victim to the courts, I would ask you to present yourself as a lawyer to plead my case.”

Rosetta laughed, amused and relieved. And the princess and Cesare spent the afternoon together enjoying each other’s company.

That night Cesare reported to the king, explaining what had happened. Louis did not seem surprised by Rosetta’s response, but he was pleased by Cesare’s reaction.

“I thank you for your kindness and understanding,” the king said.

“Do we have another princess who has not yet fallen in love?” Cesare asked pleasantly.

Still embarrassed by his inability to carry forth his promise to the Pope, the king said, “I have planned to offer an additional title as duke of Dinois, and present two estates of great significance to those I have already conferred upon you.”

Cesare bowed his head in acknowledgment; then, with a glint in his eye, he asked, “I am grateful, of course—but will this gain me a wife?”

Louis was obviously distressed. “With the refusal of Princess Rosetta, and with your permission, we will begin a more extensive search immediately. We will scour the French royal houses for just the right princess.”

Cesare stood to leave. “I will extend my stay,” he said, “and visit your countryside until she is found.”

In Rome, the Pope could think of nothing but his son’s marriage. He called Cardinal Ascanio Sforza to him and asked that he return to Naples to plead again with the king.

But weeks later the cardinal returned without success, for Rosetta continued to refuse, and he had found no willing match among the other young women. And during his stay in Naples, Cardinal Sforza found more that was troubling. There was news in the south that Louis XII was planning another French invasion to claim his ancestral rights to both Milan and Naples.

“Is this true?” Ascanio Sforza asked Alexander. “And what do you mean to do about it?”

The Pope was enraged to be so questioned by Ascanio. But he was unable either to lie or tell the truth. Instead he said, “I would take action if my son, Cesare, was not hostage at the very court of France.”

“A very well-dressed, well-kept, willing hostage,” the cardinal remarked, “who carries with him the coffers of the Holy Mother Church filled with riches for his pleasure. Or to seduce a wife in order to form an alliance which will threaten Rome itself.”

Pope Alexander was outraged now, and so he thundered, “My dear cardinal, it was your brother Il Moro, if you recall, who invited the first French invasion. And it is Rome that is betrayed—for not one of the members of the house of Aragon will offer a marital alliance. They give me little choice.”

“So it is true that you have aligned with France against Aragon?” Ascanio asked, with some satisfaction.

Alexander struggled to compose himself. Then he stood up and pointed toward the door of his chambers and said, “Leave at once, for what you have spoken nears heresy. And I suggest that you pray for forgiveness for such slander, or I shall give you last rites and have you tossed into the dark waters of the Tiber on this very night.”

Cardinal Ascanio Sforza fled, but the sound of the Pope’s fiery invective and thunderous voice sent him racing down the steps so quickly that his heart in his chest was pounding. He tripped once but picked himself up, determined to leave Rome for Naples as soon as he was able.

During the months that followed, the Pope put aside all papal business. He could focus on nothing but a new alliance. He refused visiting ambassadors from Venice, Florence, Milan, and Naples—anyone who did not come to offer his son Cesare a wife.

In France, after several months, King Louis called Cesare into his chambers and happily announced, “I have brought some very good news. If you and the Holy Father agree, I have found a splendid match for you: Charlotte d’Albret, a beautiful and intelligent woman, and the sister of the king of Navarre.”

Cesare, pleased and relieved, immediately sent a message to his father asking for permission to marry and to extend his stay in France.

After celebrating High Mass at Saint Peter’s, Alexander was deeply troubled. He had received a message from his son, and as he knelt at the altar in the basilica under the watchful eye of the Holy Madonna he tried to reason . . .

During his thirty-five years as a vice-chancellor to Popes, during his six years as Pope, and in all his years of life, Alexander had never been faced with such a terrible dilemma. His alliance with Spain had always been his strength, as a man of God and as a man of the world. He had managed to balance the foreign powers of Spain and France, and maintain support for the papacy in both countries.

But after Juan’s death his widow, Maria Enriquez, had convinced Queen Isabella, and therefore King Ferdinand, that Cesare Borgia was the true killer of his brother. As a result, there was not one family in the house of Aragon—nor in Spain, Naples, or Milan—who would allow their daughter to wed the Pope’s son.

Alexander had searched all the cities, had spoken to countless ambassadors and offered great benefices, but still he had been unable to find a suitable wife and a strong alliance for Cesare. Yet he must, or the Borgia themselves would fall.

He needed support for the papacy, and he needed the help of the armies of Naples and Spain in order to unify the lands and quell the uprisings by the greedy warlords. Even his daughter Lucrezia’s marriage to Alfonso of Naples, under the house of Aragon, secretly rested on this intention to insure the alliance of Cesare with Alfonso’s sister, Princess Rosetta.

But now she had refused, and the son he had sent to marry a Spanish princess was instead offered a French princess for a wife. Was he losing his grip on the papacy?

He folded his hands, bowed his head before the great marble statue of the Madonna, and begged for her counsel.

“As you must already know, Holy Mother, my son, Cesare, asks if he can take for a wife a daughter of France. And His Catholic Majesty, Louis the Twelfth, offers to assist him in claiming the lands owed to your church. He will send French soldiers to accompany him in battle.”

Alexander wrestled with his thoughts and pondered his choices. If he consented to the marriage of Cesare and Charlotte, must he now cut free not only from Spain and Naples, but his beloved daughter as well? For her husband, Alfonso, was a prince of Naples, and a French alliance would no doubt destroy Lucrezia’s marriage. Yet what would happen to his family if he refused France? For surely this king would invade with or without his permission—and install Cardinal della Rovere as Pope.

If the French came through Milan, Alexander was certain, Ludovico would run without a fight. More important, though, once Naples had to take up arms, what would become of his son Jofre and his wife, Sancia?

The Pope searched desperately for just one reason to choose Spain over France, to deny Cesare his French wife. But after kneeling, praying, and pacing for hours, Alexander could find none. On the other hand, if the well-trained French soldiers rode with Cesare to overtake the territories now run by local barons and warlords, he could be crowned duke of the Romagna. The Borgia family would then be safe and the papacy secure.

He stayed all night, watching the flickering candles and pleading for divine inspiration. And when he left the chapel in the early hours of the morning, he had arrived at his decision, though reluctantly.

Duarte Brandao was waiting in the Pope’s chambers on his return, for he understood Alexander’s struggle.

“Duarte, my friend,” the Pope said. “I have considered this as carefully as I am able. And I have come to a conclusion. I need one piece of parchment so that I may pen my reply in order that I may lay my head on a pillow and finally rest.”

Duarte watched the Pope sit at his desk, and for the first time he looked aged and tired. He handed the Pope his pen.

Alexander’s hand was firm, but his message to Cesare was short. It said only, “My dearest son. Match excellent. Proceed.”

The holy city of Rome held great festivities on the day of Cesare Borgia’s marriage to Charlotte d’Albret in France. The Pope ordered a huge display of fireworks, a gigantic streaming light show to brighten the sky, and bonfires to be set to lighten the streets. Ah, such jubilation!

Lucrezia, at home in Santa Maria in Portico with Prince Alfonso, watched in horror as one of the largest fires was lit before her palace. Not that she wasn’t happy for her brother, for she loved him dearly—but what of her dear husband, for whom this new political alliance could only mean disaster?

When word reached them that Cardinal Ascanio Sforza had fled the city, accompanied by several other cardinals aligned with Naples, Alfonso was filled with fear and confusion about his future.

He pulled Lucrezia into his arms to hold her as he watched the fires rage. “My family is in danger if there is a French invasion,” he said softly. “I must go to Naples to command the troops. My father and uncle will need me.”

Lucrezia clung tight to him. “But the Holy Father assures me that we will not be in danger, for he will never let political discord interfere with our love.”

Alfonso, though only eighteen, looked at Lucrezia with deep sadness. He brushed her hair from her eyes. “And you believe this, my sweet Lucrezia?”

That night, after they made love, they lay awake a long time before Lucrezia was able to fall asleep. And once Alfonso heard the soft sound of her easy breathing, he sneaked out of bed and walked carefully to the stables. There he mounted his horse and made his way south into the countryside, to the castle of the Colonna; from there, in the morning, he would leave for Naples.

But the Pope sent papal police to hound him, and he was forced to stay at the castle or return to Rome, for otherwise he would be carried back by papal troops. Day after day Alfonso wrote Lucrezia, begging her to join him, but his letters never reached her for they fell into the hands of the Vatican messengers and were brought instead to the Pope.

Lucrezia was more unhappy than she had ever been. She could not understand why Alfonso did not write, for she missed him desperately. If she had not been six months pregnant, she would have followed him to Naples. But now she dared not make such a strenuous trip, for she had already lost one baby early in that year, when she had fallen off a horse. And even to attempt such a journey would mean having to sneak out in the night past her father’s guards—for they surrounded her palace.

Cesare stayed in France—not only long enough to marry Charlotte, but to spend months with her in a small château in the beautiful Loire Valley.

Charlotte was as beautiful and intelligent as the king had promised, and Cesare finally felt some peace. She radiated a remarkable serenity, and their lovemaking calmed Cesare. But each day he struggled with himself, for in his heart he still longed for Lucrezia.

For a time, Charlotte’s presence in his life balanced Cesare’s fierce urge to succeed, to achieve, to conquer. The young couple spent days together taking long walks, boating on the placid river, reading together. And they laughed in great measure as Cesare tried to teach Charlotte to swim and to fish.

One evening during this time, Charlotte confessed, “I truly love you as I have loved no other man.”

Despite his usual cynicism, Cesare found he believed her—and yet her words did not matter as much as they should. It was puzzling: though he tried to fall in love again, something seemed to be standing in his way. As they spent their nights together making love by the fire and holding each other in comfort, Cesare began to wonder if he had been cursed, as his sister had suggested. Had his father truly sacrificed him to the serpent that first time in the Garden?

On the very night that Charlotte told him she was pregnant with his child, he received an urgent message from the Pope.

“Return to Rome immediately to fulfill your duties,” it read. “The vicars are conspiring, and the Sforza have invited Spain to Italy.”

Cesare told Charlotte that he must return to Rome to lead the papal armies, to claim the territories in the Romagna and establish a strong central government for the papacy. Until he secured the Borgia power so completely that it would endure beyond his life and the life of the Pope, she and their children would be in danger. In the meantime, he told her that she and the child she was carrying must remain in France.

On the day Cesare left Charlotte tried to be gracious, but in the end she clung fiercely and tearfully to him as he mounted his horse. He stepped down, held her in his arms, and felt her body tremble. “My dear Lottie,” he said, “I’ll send for you and the infant as soon as I am able. And have no fear, for there is not an Italian alive who can kill me.” He bent and kissed her gently.

Then Cesare mounted his sleek white charger, and with one last wave to Charlotte he rode through the castle gate.