7

THE POPE’S PHYSICIAN rushed to the Vatican with an urgent report of an outbreak of plague in the city of Rome. Now, sitting at his throne, in the Hall of Faith, and hearing of the coming of the Black Death, Alexander was alarmed. He quickly called his daughter to his chambers.

“It is time for you to leave for Pesaro, to seek sanctuary with your husband,” he said simply.

“But Papa,” she cried, kneeling at his feet and holding to his legs, “how can I leave you? How can I leave my brothers, and my dearest Adriana, and our Julia? How can I live in that place so far from this city I love?”

Under normal circumstances Alexander would have bargained for more time with his precious daughter, but now, with this new and dangerous circumstance, he found he must insist that she go. “Papa will send Madonna Adriana and dear Julia with you to Pesaro,” he told her. “And we will send messages each day, so neither of us will be lonely, my sweet child.”

But Lucrezia was inconsolable. She stood now, her usual soft eyes blazing. “I would prefer to die a Black Death in Rome than live with Giovanni Sforza in Pesaro. He is impossible. He never looks at me, rarely speaks to me, and when he does it is all about himself, or to order me to do something I hate.”

Pope Alexander drew her into an affectionate embrace and tried to comfort her. “Have we not spoken of this before? Of the sacrifices we each must make in order to maintain the well-being of the family and the power of God in the world? Our dear Julia has told me of your admiration of Saint Catherine. Would she object, as you are doing, to the call of the Heavenly Father? And is not your papa the voice of the Heavenly Father on earth?”

Lucrezia stood back and looked at her father. With her lower lip still in a pout, she said, “But Catherine of Siena is a saint; I am but a girl. It is not necessary for girls to do as saints do. For being the daughter of a Pope should not make me a martyr.”

Pope Alexander’s eyes lit up. Only a rare man would have been able to resist his daughter’s passionate argument, yet he found himself enchanted and amused by her reluctance to leave him.

He took her delicate hand in his. “Ah, your papa too has to sacrifice for the Heavenly Father, for there is no one in this world whom I love above you, my child.”

Now Lucrezia looked at her father coyly. “Not even Julia?”

The Pope made the sign of the cross over his chest. “With the Lord as my witness, I say again, there is no one I love above you.”

“Oh, Papa,” Lucrezia said, throwing her arms around his neck and breathing in the scent of incense from his golden garments. “Will you promise to send message after message without ever stopping? And will you promise to send for me whenever you see I cannot bear it any longer? For if not I will fade away from despair, and you will never lay eyes on me again.”

“I promise,” he said. “Now gather your ladies-in-waiting, and I will inform your husband that you will be leaving immediately for Pesaro.”

As Lucrezia left she bent to kiss the Pope’s ring, and when she lifted her head she asked, “Shall I tell our Julia or will you?”

The Pope smiled. “You may tell her,” he said, pretending seriousness. “Now go . . . ”

 

On the last day of their five-day journey to Pesaro, the rain was falling in heavy sheets, drenching Lucrezia, Julia, and Adriana, as well as all their servants and supplies.

Lucrezia was disappointed, for she had hoped to look her very best on her arrival; after all, she was their duchess. With the pride and excitement of a child pretending, Lucrezia wanted to enjoy the admiration and affection she hoped to see on the faces of those people who now would be her subjects.

A caravan of horses carried their precious cargo in peasant carts as they journeyed through the beautiful countryside along the rough dirt road. Though Michelotto and several of his armed men accompanied Lucrezia and her company to protect them from the dangers of attack by bandits, and the hazards of robbery, they were still forced to stop each night when darkness fell. But there were few accommodations along the road from Rome to Pesaro, and often they had to set up an encampment.

Several hours before they arrived, Lucrezia asked her envoy to put up shelter so she and Julia could prepare themselves. They had been on the road for many days now, and her fresh young face and clean hair had wilted with the weather—to say nothing of the mud caked on her shoes and gown. She asked her ladies-in-waiting to take down her hair, dry it with new cotton cloths, and apply balm to her tresses to give the gold a special sheen. But when she slipped out of her gown to put on another, she suddenly felt dizzy. “I have a chill,” she told her lady, and then reached out to grab the shoulder of the girl in order to steady herself.

Adriana looked concerned, for Lucrezia’s cheeks appeared rosy with fever. “Are you feeling sickly?” she asked.

Lucrezia smiled, her eyes shinier than usual. “I feel well,” she lied, but Adriana noticed the gooseflesh on her arms. “As soon as we arrive and I have some hot tea, I’m sure I’ll feel better. But let us get started, for I’m certain there are festivities awaiting us, and we do not want to weary the loyal citizens.”

They traveled on to Pesaro, where miles before they reached the gates they saw the crowds of men, women, and children who had gathered, some holding boards or cloth above their heads to shelter themselves from the hard driving rain. But still they sang to her and clapped for her while they shouted happy greetings. They threw flowers and lifted children for her to touch.

But by the time they arrived at the gate, Lucrezia’s head was spinning. And when Giovanni greeted her with a smile, and said, “Welcome, my duchess,” she hardly heard him before she swooned from weakness and slipped from her horse.

One of the manservants caught her in his arms, and carried her into the palace. Amazed at how little she weighed and impressed by her blond beauty, he placed her gently on the feather bed in the grand bedroom and went back to tell the others all about the duke’s new bride. Adriana and Julia fussed about her, asking for tea and soup to help warm her, but by then Giovanni had gone back to the crowds, telling them that the duchess would formally greet them the following day once she had rested and managed to renew herself.

That night, in the darkened room in a strange city, Lucrezia lay in bed, said her prayers, and tried to sleep. She missed her father terribly, but even more she missed her brother Cesare.

On the day she left Rome Cesare had promised to visit her in Pesaro, but if for any reason that became impossible, he promised he would send Don Michelotto to accompany her to meet him at Silverlake, which was halfway between Rome and Pesaro. There they could spend time alone. They could speak without anyone hearing; they could play in the fields as they did as children, far from the prying eyes of the Pope and those others who were sworn to safeguard them.

The thought of Cesare comforted her, and finally, when she closed her eyes and imagined her brother’s lips upon hers, she fell asleep.

When she awoke the following morning she still felt feverish, but refused to stay in bed, for she didn’t want to waste another day without seeing Pesaro and greeting the citizens she knew had been waiting to see her. The rain had cleared and now the sun was shining into her room, making it look warm and cozy. Some of the citizens had stayed through the night and were still standing in the square outside the castle; she could hear them singing through her open windows.

Giovanni had promised Lucrezia that there would be grand balls and parties to attend. She had to prepare. With Julia and Adriana and the ladies-in-waiting, she managed to choose a gown that was both simple and elegant, of pink satin with a bodice of fine Venetian lace. She wore a beaded headdress of gold and pearls, with her hair tied up at the sides, but left long and flowing in back. When she presented herself to Julia, she spun around joyfully. “Do I look like a duchess?”

Julia, her blue eyes shining, said, “Rather like a princess to me.”

Adriana agreed. “A perfect angel.”

Lucrezia walked out onto the balcony and waved to the crowd in the square. They clapped and cheered for her, and threw crowns woven of flowers. She bent and lifted one from the floor of the balcony and placed it on her head. And the crowd cheered even louder.

Then there was music in the city, with jugglers, jousters, and jesters running through the streets just as there had been in Rome, and again she was overcome with happiness at all the attention being paid to her. She had always wondered why her father and her brothers so enjoyed the marches through the city and the power of position, but now she felt she understood. Looking into the faces of all the men, women, and children gazing up at her, Lucrezia felt much less lonely. Maybe she too had been born to this.

Pesaro was beautiful; its countryside, dotted with olive trees, was lush and green. Surrounding it, protecting it, the huge and graceful Apennine Mountains cradled the city. Lucrezia knew she could be truly happy here—happier still if she could find a way to tolerate her husband, Giovanni.

 

It was well known throughout France that King Charles placed great faith not only in the Holy Roman Catholic Church, but also in the alignment of the stars in the heavens. And so it followed that his most trusted advisor was the physician and astrologer Simon of Pavia. Simon had read the celestial map on the occasion of Charles’s birth, and it was he who proclaimed the young king’s future destiny as leader of the new Crusade against the Infidel Turks. From the time Charles was a child, he embarked upon no important assignment without the counsel of his astrologer.

It was due not only to great skill but also to great fortune that Duarte Brandao came upon this important piece of information, and conceived of a brilliant strategy. He was in such high spirits, he rushed into the Pope’s chambers to speak to him.

Pope Alexander was sitting at his desk, signing a large pile of papal bulls. When he looked up and saw Duarte, he smiled amiably and dismissed everyone else in the room.

Alexander stood and walked over to his favorite chair. But when Duarte bent to kiss his ring, the Pope pulled his hand away impatiently. “My friend, save all this ceremony for public occasions or when we are in the company of others, for in private I acknowledge that it is you that I trust above all—even my children. And that responsibility imposes a certain equality, even upon the Vicar of Christ. For I, Alexander the man, cherish your loyalty and value your friendship.”

He waved his hand to indicate a chair opposite him, but Duarte was unable to sit still as he explained what he had learned.

Pope Alexander listened carefully. Then he asked, “Do you, yourself, believe the stars rule?”

Duarte shook his head. “Your Holiness, what I believe can hardly matter.”

“And yet it does,” the Pope said.

“I believe the stars affect one’s life, yet no one but the man himself and our Heavenly Father rules his life.”

The Pope reached to touch the amber amulet that always hung around his neck, and rubbed it affectionately. “Each of us believes there is a charm to our life, and so this Charles is not much different.” He smiled at Duarte. “But you must have a plan you have brought me, for I can see it on your face, so speak of it now.”

Duarte’s voice was almost a whisper. “Let me go to this man, this Simon of Pavia, in advance of the invasion, with a ‘professional fee.’ An act of confidence.”

“In what amount?” Alexander asked.

Duarte hesitated a moment, for he knew of the Pope’s frugal nature when dealing with anything but state ceremony and family. “I would offer twenty thousand ducats . . . ”

Alexander’s eyes widened, and he tried to control the surprise in his voice. “Duarte? We could outfit an army with horses for such a sum. Twenty thousand ducats is not a professional fee, it is a colossal bribe . . . ”

Brandao smiled. “Holiness, we must not quibble over a few pieces of gold. We must ensure a favorable reading by this physician, for he has earned the trust of the king of France.”

The Pope sat in quiet consideration for several minutes, and then he agreed. “Duarte, as usual, you are correct. Pay the dottore his fee, as you suggest. Astrology itself denies the God-given gift of free will. It is forbidden by canon law. So it is not as though we are opposing a lawful Christian process. Our interference with it does not stain our immortal soul.”

That very night Duarte rode in disguise through the French lines. He rode for several days to reach his destination—a small cottage in the woods. There he arrived in time to find Simon of Pavia frolicking in the arms of a very rotund whore. Brandao, always a gentleman, politely convinced Simon to excuse himself from the lady and join him in the living quarters, for he had a message of great importance to deliver.

It only took a few moments for Duarte to present the agreement and pay the physician his fee.

Still in disguise, assured of the success of his mission, Brandao mounted his horse and rode back to Rome.

 

Ah, that a Pope could have only the heart and soul of a saint instead of the worldly desires of a mortal man. But as embroiled as Alexander was in political intrigue, he was now constantly distracted by his personal affairs. His young mistress, Julia Farnese, who had traveled with Lucrezia to Pesaro, had been forced to stay away weeks longer than expected after Lucrezia fell ill, in order to care for her. Once Lucrezia had recovered enough for Julia to leave with a clear conscience, she decided to visit her husband, Orso, at the Castel of Bassanello, for a reason Alexander could not comprehend. But first, she implored the Pope, she must stop to visit her mother and sick brother at Capodimonte.

When Alexander read Julia’s request, he forbade it; her husband, Orso, was a soldier, he insisted, and had been sent away on papal business. But Julia, young and spirited, rebelled against the Pope’s instructions to return to Rome immediately. She penned a second letter begging Alexander’s forgiveness for her disobedience, but insisted she could not return just yet. And to add to her betrayal, she took her mother-in-law, Adriana, along with her to Capodimonte.

When Alexander received her next message, he was furious. If he could not bear to be without his Julia, how then could she bear to be without him? Faithless girl! Now the Pope flew into a rage at everyone in his service. He lay awake at night, sleepless, not over any political threat, but out of longing for the touch of Julia’s hand, the scent of her hair, the comfort of her warm body. Finally, when he could bear it no longer, he kneeled at his altar and prayed that the demon of his insatiable appetites be shriven from his heart. When Cardinal Farnese tried to reason with him—explaining that his sister had no choice, for Orso had sent for her and he was after all her husband—the Pope dismissed him with a shout. “Ingrazia!”

For days Alexander fumed. He paced his chambers and repeated long lists of the vices of his mistress, her husband, and his favorite cousin. He would excommunicate them. They would surely be sent to hell for this betrayal.

But it was young Orso who finally helped relieve the Pope’s anguish. Hearing of Alexander’s distress, and fearing for his own position, he forbade his wife to come to Bassanello. Instead he instructed her to return home to Rome at once, for there was danger on the roads of Rome from the French invasion. And, because he was her husband, she was obliged to obey.

 

When King Charles moved his powerful army across the Alps into Italian territory, the bitter, angry Cardinal della Rovere was at his side, goading him, insisting that an attack on the Borgia Pope was more important than any against the Infidel Turks.

As the French troops moved southward toward Naples, no one took action to stop them—not Milan, not Bologna, not Florence.

Pope Alexander, hearing of their approach, prepared to defend Rome and the Vatican. He set his trust in King Ferrante’s captain general, Virginio Orsini, head of the Orsini family. Virginio had convinced the Pope of his good faith by paying the necessary tax on his castles; Alexander knew that Virginio could call upon more than twenty thousand vassals, and with his great fortress, the impregnable Bracciano, they were almost invincible.

But the seeds of treachery and avarice can hide in the hearts of the most courageous of men, and even the Holy Father could not portend their development.

Duarte Brandao now rushed into the chambers of Pope Alexander. “I have received word, Your Worthiness, that our former friend Virginio Orsini has gone over to the French.”

Pope Alexander, hearing the news, said, “He must have lost his wits . . . ”

Duarte, whose composure was legendary, now looked upset.

“What is it, my friend?” the Pope asked. “It is just a change of strategy that is needed here. Now, rather than fight this King Charles, we must just outthink him.”

Duarte lowered his head and his voice. “There is more distressing news, Your Omnipotence. The French have captured Julia Farnese and Madonna Adriana on their way back from Capodimonte. They are being held at the headquarters of the cavalry, even now.”

Pope Alexander went pale with rage. For long moments he was speechless, his mind dark with worry and fear. Finally he spoke. “Duarte, the fall of Rome would be a tragedy, but if my dear Julia were harmed, it would be a complete calamity. You must arrange for her release, for they will surely wish to ransom her.”

“What are your terms?” Duarte asked.

“Pay whatever you must,” Alexander said. “For Charles now has in his hands my heart and my eyes.”

 

The French, as well as being fine soldiers, were also known for their chivalry. Once they captured Julia Farnese and Adriana Orsini, they released all the servants who had accompanied them. Then they tried to charm the beautiful ladies with both food and amusing stories. But when Charles found out who the captives were, he immediately ordered that they be returned to the Pope.

“For what ransom?” the chief cavalryman asked.

Charles felt generous. “Three thousand ducats,” he said.

The commander protested. “Pope Alexander will pay fifty times that.”

“But we are here to gain the crown of Naples,” Charles reminded the general, “which is worth far more.”

Within three days, Julia Farnese and Adriana were returned to Rome unharmed, accompanied by four hundred French troops. And waiting at the gates joyful and relieved was Alexander.

Later, in his chambers, dressed as a cavalier with sword and dagger at his side, wearing shiny black boots from Valencia and a black cloak with gold brocade, he made love to Julia. And for the first time since she’d been gone, he felt at peace.

 

Pope Alexander, given the outrageous treachery of Virginio Orsini, knew that resisting the French was now hopeless. Without his fortresses to guard the entrance to Rome, there would be no stopping Charles. He needed time to develop a strategy to outsmart the young king, rather than to try to defeat the French in battle.

With his usual farsightedness, as soon as Alexander was made Pope, he had prepared for the possibility of a foreign invasion. He had commissioned a secure corridor between the rooms in the Vatican and the Castel Sant’ Angelo which could offer him protection. He had supplied it with enough food and water to last for at least one winter, and now he resolved to resist that long if necessary.

Now, under the watchful eyes of Duarte Brandao and Don Michelotto, Alexander and Cesare instructed their servants to gather their valuables—the gold tiaras, papal jewels, relics, beds, chests and tapestries—for their retreat to Castel Sant’ Angelo, an impregnable fortress. Their families came with them; even Vanozza abandoned her palace for the safety of Sant’ Angelo. And with great wisdom and sensitivity Cardinal Farnese whisked his sister, Julia, out of Rome, preventing any opportunity for discomfort to the Pope. The confrontation between past and present mistresses could cause Alexander more distress than the arrival of King Charles, for though Vanozza accepted Julia—never quite able to take her seriously—Julia was quite jealous of the mother of the Pope’s children.

On Christmas Day, the Pope ordered all troops from Naples to leave Rome at once. They were not strong enough to overcome the French troops, and Alexander feared that their presence in the city would make Rome seem a hostile place. Then Charles might resort to sacking the city, looting and pillaging all the valuables as they took capture—or, at the very least, failing to restrain his troops as they did so.

He told Duarte, “Please get a message to Charles. Tell him His Holiness, Pope Alexander, wishes to welcome him as he passes through our city on the way to Naples.”

Duarte frowned, his eyes narrowed. “Passes through?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Alexander said, but he looked concerned when he added, “though I’m not certain that is what the good king has in mind.”

 

In December, as falling snow turned everything gray, the distressed Pope Alexander and his son Cesare watched from the window of their fortress as the French army, in orderly ranks, marched through the gates of Rome.

Swiss troopers with lethal ten-foot pikes and spears, Gascons with crossbows and the small-caliber long guns they called harquebuses, German mercenaries with axes and spikes, and light cavalry with fearsome lances flooded the city. They were accompanied by heavily armored men at arms with swords and iron maces, and taking up the rear came row after row of marching French artillery-men walking beside gigantic bronze cannons.

In preparation for the king’s arrival, Alexander had set aside the lavish Palazzo Venezia for Charles. He would be attended to by the finest chef the Pope could commandeer, and hundreds of servants were enlisted to deliver all manner of luxury to the French monarch. In return for the Pope’s hospitality, Charles gave his troops strict instructions that there was to be no looting or other violence in the city, under pain of death.

But while Charles was enjoying his “visit” to Rome, impressed by the respect the Pope had shown him, Cardinal della Rovere and his dissident cardinals were whispering in the king’s ear, repeatedly warning Charles of the Pope’s cunning and urging him to convene a General Council.

Alexander sent one of his many loyal cardinals, and one of his most persuasive, to speak to the king, to defend him against Cardinal della Rovere’s charge of simony. And Charles seemed more persuaded by the arguments of Alexander’s minister than by the harping of frantic della Rovere.

No General Council was called.

Instead, after several days, King Charles sent a sealed message to the Pope. As Alexander unrolled the parchment, he allowed himself a deep breath. He scanned the royal document carefully, and tried to apprehend the mood of the writer. It was a request. King Charles wanted an audience with him.

The Pope was relieved. He had accomplished what he hoped for. His strategy was working; now it appeared that this almost impossible situation could be negotiated to his advantage. Though his territory had been breached by Charles and his troops, the Pope knew he must maintain an air of superiority with this impetuous French king. He didn’t want to appear arrogant; still, he understood he must avoid making his relief obvious.

The Pope arranged for a meeting in the Vatican gardens. But timing would be crucial. Alexander knew he could not arrive before the king and appear to be waiting, yet it was just as important that the king not arrive first and be kept waiting. This is where Alexander’s genius was its most refined.

He was carried by litter from Castel Sant’ Angelo to the meeting place in the garden. But he instructed his bearers to hide him behind a large bush alongside one of the stone buildings. There he waited soundlessly for twenty minutes. Then, just as he saw King Charles enter the garden and begin to walk the long path lined with scarlet roses, Alexander’s bearers brought forward his litter.

Pope Alexander was outfitted in one of his most imposing garments: the three golden crowns a sparkling beacon on his mitered headdress, a great jeweled crucifix dangling against his chest.

Charles, the mighty king of France, the most powerful military nation in Christendom, was a tiny, almost dwarflike man, who walked on elevated boots and seemed to conceal his person in voluminous garments in all the colors of the rainbow. He was so obviously awed by the stature of Pope Alexander that a trickle of saliva ran from his mouth.

And so it was, within this garden filled with holy roses, that Pope Alexander negotiated to save Rome.

 

The following day, Pope and king met again to finalize their agreement, this time in the Hall of Popes. Alexander knew this would allow him the advantage. Charles would consider it a holy place, as sacred a venue as there could be.

Alexander dictated that the preamble read in such a way that Charles could never move to depose him. “Our Holy Father,” it stated, “shall remain the good father of the king of France, and the king of France shall remain a devoted son to our Holy Father.” Then it was time to get to the other business at hand.

Alexander would provide the French army with free passage through all the Papal States, with provisions to boot. In short, if Charles could win Naples with arms, Alexander would give him the approval of the church. To ensure this, the Pope would hand over his dearly beloved son Cesare to King Charles as a hostage. Cesare Borgia would also be given authority to crown Charles as king of Naples once the city was conquered.

Prince Djem, still held captive by the Pope, would also be handed over to Charles, but the Pope would be permitted to keep the forty thousand ducats that the sultan of Turkey paid each year to keep his brother captive. Charles would use Djem as one of the leaders of the Crusade, to blunt the vigor of the defending Infidel.

King Charles’s foremost desire was to be named by the Pope as the official commander of the Crusades. Alexander agreed, but insisted first Charles must swear obedience to him, and acknowledge him as the true Vicar of Christ.

It was agreed, with the exception that Charles would be named commander of the Crusades only after he had conquered Naples.

Charles bowed several times as was necessary, and kissed Alexander’s ring. Then he said, “I swear obedience and reverence to Your Holiness, as have all the kings of France. I acknowledge you, Holy Father, as the pontiff of all Christians, and the successor of the apostles Peter and Paul. Now I offer everything I own to the Holy See.”

Alexander rose, clasped Charles in his arms, and said, “I will grant you three favors,” as was the custom. Before a vassal swore obedience and reverence to a new lord, he had the right to ask favors. To avoid indignity to the holy office, it was understood that the favors would be negotiated beforehand and thus would not seem to be bargaining.

Charles continued. “I ask that you confirm my family in all its royal privileges, that you decree we rule by God’s will. Second, that you bless my expedition to Naples. And third, that you name three of my designees as cardinals, allowing Cardinal della Rovere to reside in France.”

Pope Alexander agreed to the terms, and so, with great joy, King Charles called from his company a tall, reed-thin man with a long face and mournful eyes. “Your Holiness, I wish to introduce my physician and astrologer, Simon of Pavia. His reading of the stars influenced my decision more than any other factor, and led me to reject the urgings of Cardinal della Rovere and to place my trust in you.”

Thus, from a position of helplessness, Alexander had negotiated a reasonable peace.

 

Later that evening, Alexander called Cesare into his chambers to explain the afternoon’s agreement with King Charles.

Cesare felt a quick rush of anger as he listened, but he bowed his head. He knew that, as a cardinal and the Pope’s son, he was logically an appropriate hostage. His brother Juan, who would soon become captain general of the papal army, could not be the primary hostage. Cesare’s anger had less to do with the danger of the situation than with the way the transaction reminded him that he was a pawn to be traded on the whim of others.

Alexander sat down on the beautifully carved chest at the foot of his bed, the lid intricately carved by Pinturicchio. Inside that chest were drinking goblets, many nightclothes, extra perfumes and essences—all necessary when Pope Alexander brought his mistresses to his sleeping chambers at the Borgia apartments. He preferred sitting on this chest more than on any of the chairs in his chambers.

“My son, you know I am not able to send your brother Juan to be hostage, for he is to become the captain general of the papal army. Therefore, it must be you,” Alexander told his son, acknowledging Cesare’s irritation. “Charles has also demanded Djem as a hostage, so you will have a companion. Cheer up! Naples is an enjoyable city for a young fellow like yourself.” Alexander paused for a moment, his dark eyes merry. Then he said to Cesare, “You are not fond of your brother Juan.”

But Cesare was used to this trick of his father—the joviality that masked a serious intent. “He is my brother,” Cesare said respectfully. “So I am fond of him as my brother.”

Cesare had far more terrible secrets to hide than his hatred of his brother—secrets that could ruin his life, and his relationship with his father, the church, and his fellow men. So he did not try too hard to conceal his dislike for Juan. Instead he laughed. “Of course, if he were not my brother, he would be my enemy.”

Alexander frowned with annoyance. He knew he was missing something of importance. “Never say that, even in jest. The Borgia family has many enemies, and we can only survive holding faith with each other.” He rose from the chest and came to Cesare and embraced him. “I know you would rather be a soldier than a priest. But believe me, you are more important in the family plans than Juan, and you know how much I love your brother. But when I die, everything falls unless you are there to succeed me. You are the only one of my children who can accomplish this. You have the wits, the daring, and the fighting skill. There have been warrior Popes before, and surely you can be one.”

“I am too young,” Cesare said impatiently. “You would have to live another twenty years . . . ”

Alexander gave him a push with his hand. “And why not?” He grinned at Cesare, that roguish grin which so endeared him to his children and his mistresses. His deep baritone voice rolled off at full measure. “Who enjoys a banquet more than I? Who can hunt more hours a day than myself? Who loves women better? If it were not so strictly against canon law for a Pope to father children, how many more bastards would I now have? I will live another twenty years, and you shall be Pope. I have already planned it.”

“I would rather fight than pray,” Cesare said. “It is my nature.”

“As you have proven,” Alexander sighed. “But I tell you all this to prove my love for you. You are my dear son and my greatest hope. Someday you, not Charles, will regain Jerusalem.” He paused for a moment, overcome by emotion.

Alexander’s most formidable weapon was his ability to inspire a feeling of well-being in his company—it was this ability to make each person believe that their welfare was of the greatest importance to him that gained their trust, and made them believe more in him than they did in themselves. This was his true treachery.

And so it was in his dealings with royalty, his children, and his subjects: for as long as he was Pope, the entirety of earth was under his dominion.

For a moment the charm of Alexander entranced Cesare. But the reference to another Crusade broke the spell. Popes and kings had often used the hope of another Crusade to extract money from the believing people; it was another source of revenue. But the time for a Crusade had passed, for Islam was now too strong. It threatened Europe itself. Venice lived in fear that its worldwide trade would be cut off by such a war and that the Turks might even attack their city. France and Spain were constantly at each other’s throats for the crown of Naples, and the Pope himself had all he could do to maintain its temporal power in the Papal States of Italy. And his father was too clever not to know all this. But Cesare also knew that Juan was first in his father’s heart—and rightly so, he thought. Juan had the wiles of a devious woman and the fickle heart of a courtier. At times he could even charm Cesare himself, though Cesare despised him because he thought him a coward. Commander of the papal army? A joke!

“When I lead the Crusade, I will have my head tonsured,” Cesare said. It was a joke between his father and himself. Cesare had never worn his hair in the priestly tonsure.

Alexander laughed. “After you lead the Crusade, perhaps you can persuade the church to do away with both celibacy and tonsure for priests. Perhaps they are both healthy practices, but still they are unnatural.” Alexander was silent for a moment, lost in thought. Then he said, “Let me remind you of one thing. When you accompany the army of France to Naples, you must guard the life of your fellow hostage, Djem. Remember, the sultan of Turkey pays me forty thousand ducats each year for his keep. If he dies, no more money; if he escapes, no more money. And he brings in more money than a cardinal’s hat.”

“I will guard him and myself,” Cesare said. “I trust that you will restrain my brother Juan in Spain. He must do nothing to alienate King Ferdinand and thus endanger our safety with the French king.”

“Your brother acts under my orders only,” Alexander said. “And my orders will always be to protect you. After all, you, my son, hold in your hand the future of the Borgia.”

“I will do my best for you always,” Cesare said. “And for the church.”

 

Knowing that by afternoon he would be taken hostage and forced to leave Rome, Cesare left the Vatican before dawn and rode far into the countryside. He had only one purpose in mind.

After riding for quite some time, over hills and through a forest alive with the rustling of animals and the hooting of owls, he reached the outskirts of the small village just as the sun was rising to push away the shadows of night. His horse was sweaty from the speed and strain of the journey.

When he came upon the small stone cottage, he called out. “Noni, Noni,” he shouted, but no one answered. As far as he could see, the fields were empty. He rode around the back.

There an old woman, nearly doubled forward by age, rested heavily on a hawthorn stick. She shuffled as she walked through the garden, a wicker basket on one arm filled with freshly picked herbs and flowers. For a moment she stopped and stood with her head bent so low she almost toppled over; then slyly she raised her head and looked around in all directions. But through her clouded eyes she didn’t see him. She placed her basket on the wet ground, picked one more small bundle of herbs, and placed them carefully on the very top of the flowers. She cast her gaze upward and crossed herself. Then, as though confused, she shuffled off, her sandals dragging through the mud.

“Noni,” Cesare called to the old woman again as he rode up closer to her. “Noni!”

The woman stopped when she saw him and quickly raised her hawthorn stick to strike. But then through squinting eyes she recognized him. Only then did she smile. “Come down, my boy,” she said, her voice strained with age and emotion. “Come here and let me touch you.”

Cesare dismounted and put his arms around the old woman, holding her gently for fear her brittle bones would break.

“What can I do for you, my son?” she asked.

“I need your help,” he told her. “An herb that will put a large man to sleep for many hours, but do him no harm. It must be tasteless, and colorless as well.”

The old woman cackled and reached up to touch Cesare’s cheek affectionately. “A good boy. You’re a good boy,” she repeated. “No poison? Not like your father . . . ” she muttered. Then she cackled again, and her face wrinkled like a thin sheet of brown parchment.

Cesare had known Noni all his life. It was rumored throughout Rome that she had been his father’s wet nurse in Spain, and that Alexander felt such affection for her that he had brought her to Rome and provided her with this small cottage in the countryside and a garden in which to grow her herbs.

For as long as anyone could remember she had lived alone, yet no one had disturbed her—not even the night bandits or gangs of unruly street vandals who sometimes wandered out into the countryside to sack and pillage the weak and helpless villagers. It was a wonder that she had survived so long. And yet, if other rumors were to be believed, Noni had far greater protection than even the Holy Father. For it was also said that in the dark of night, a strange howling could often be heard coming from her house—and not only when the moon was full. And this much Cesare knew to be true: never did she have to hunt or shop to eat. For dead birds and small animals seemed to appear at her doorstep or in her garden fresh and ready for her pot.

Cesare seldom heard his father speak of her, and then it was with warmth and kindness. But each year, ceremoniously, Alexander came to this cottage in the far countryside to be bathed by Noni in the small clear pond at the back. Those who had accompanied him stood far away, but all swore they heard the sound of wild winds and flapping wings and saw a great spiraling of stars.

There were other stories, too. Around his neck Alexander wore an amber amulet that Noni had given him when he was a young cardinal, and once when it was lost he had become frantic. That very afternoon during a hunt he fell off his horse, hit his head, and lay unconscious for hours. Everyone thought he would die.

On that day, all the servants in his castle and many cardinals searched for the missing amulet, and after many promises and fervent prayer it was found. Alexander recovered, and as soon as he was able he had a strong lock placed on a thick gold chain by the Vatican goldsmith, on which to hang the amber amulet. Later he had the lock soldered so he could never remove it. He swore it protected him from evil, and there was no one who could convince him otherwise.

Now Noni walked slowly inside as Cesare followed her. On several small spikes lining the walls of the darkened cottage there were ribbon-tied bunches of herbs of all kinds. From one of these bunches the old woman carefully pulled off some leaves, and with her knarled and crooked fingers wrapped around the stone pestle she placed the leaves in a mortar and mashed them into a fine powder. This she put in a small sack and handed to Cesare. “That is the horielzitel plant’s great secret,” she told him. “It can induce a dreamless sleep. You need only one pinch for a man, but here I have given you enough for an army.”

Cesare thanked the old woman, and embraced her again. But as he mounted his horse, she put her hand on his arm and cautioned, “There is death in your house. Someone young. Protect yourself, for you too are at risk.”

Cesare nodded and tried to reassure her. “Death is always at hand, for we live in dangerous times.”