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THE GOLDEN RAYS of the summer sun warmed the cobblestone streets of Rome as Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia walked briskly from the Vatican to the three-story stucco house on the Piazza de Merlo where he’d come to claim three of his young children: his sons Cesare and Juan and his daughter Lucrezia, flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood. On this fortuitous day the vice-chancellor to the Pope, the second most powerful man in the Holy Roman Catholic Church, felt especially blessed.

At the house of their mother, Vanozza Cattanei, he found himself whistling happily. As a son of the church he was forbidden to marry, but as a man of God he felt certain that he knew the Good Lord’s plan. For did not the Heavenly Father create Eve to complete Adam, even in Paradise? So did it not follow that on this treacherous earth filled with unhappiness, a man needed the comfort of a woman even more? He’d had three previous children when he was a young bishop, but these last children he had sired, those of Vanozza, held a special place in his heart. They seemed to ignite in him the same high passions that she had. And even now, while they were still so young, he envisioned them standing on his shoulders, forming a great giant, helping him to unite the Papal States and extend the Holy Roman Catholic Church far across the world.

Over the years, whenever he had come to visit, the children always called him “Papa,” seeing no compromise in his devotion to them and his loyalty to the Holy See. They saw nothing strange about the fact he was a cardinal and their father too. For didn’t Pope Innocent’s son and daughter often parade through the streets of Rome for celebrations with great ceremony?

Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia had been with his mistress, Vanozza, for more than ten years, and he smiled when he thought how few women had brought him such excitement and kept his interest for so long. Not that Vanozza had been the only woman in his life, for he was a man of large appetites in all worldly pleasures. But she had been by far the most important. She was intelligent, to his eye beautiful—and someone he could talk to about earthly and heavenly matters. She had often given him wise counsel, and in return he had been a generous lover and a doting father to their children.

Vanozza stood in the doorway of her house and smiled bravely as she waved good-bye to her three children.

One of her great strengths now that she had reached her fortieth year was that she understood the man who wore the robes of the cardinal. She knew he had a burning ambition, a fire that flamed in his belly that would not be extinguished. He also had a military strategy for the Holy Catholic Church that would expand its reach, political alliances that would strengthen it, and promises of treaties that would cement his position as well as his power. He had talked to her about all these things. Ideas marched across his mind as relentlessly as his armies would march through new territories. He was destined to become one of the greatest leaders of men, and with his rise would come her children’s. Vanozza tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that one day, as the cardinal’s legitimate heirs, they would have wealth, power, and opportunity. And so she could let them go.

Now she held tight to her infant son, Jofre, her only remaining child—too young to take from her, for he was still at the breast. Yet he too must go before long. Her dark eyes were shiny with tears as she watched her other children walk away. Only once did Lucrezia look back, but the boys never turned around.

Vanozza saw the handsome, imposing figure of the cardinal reach for the small hand of his younger son, Juan, and the tiny hand of his three-year-old daughter, Lucrezia. Their eldest son, Cesare, left out, already looked upset. That meant trouble, she thought, but in time Rodrigo would know them as well as she did. Hesitantly, she closed the heavy wooden front door.

They had taken only a few steps when Cesare, angry now, pushed his brother so hard that Juan, losing his grip on his father’s hand, stumbled and almost fell to the ground. The cardinal stopped the small boy’s fall, then turned and said, “Cesare, my son, could you not ask for what you want, rather than pushing your brother?”

Juan, a year younger but much more slightly built than the seven-year-old Cesare, snickered proudly at his father’s defense. But before he could bask in his satisfaction, Cesare moved closer and stomped hard upon his foot.

Juan cried out in pain.

The cardinal grabbed Cesare by the back of his shirt with one of his large hands—lifting him off the cobblestone street—and shook him so hard that his auburn curls tumbled across his face. Then he stood the child on his feet again. Kneeling in front of the small boy, his brown eyes softened. He asked, “What is it, Cesare? What has displeased you so?”

The boy’s eyes, darker and more penetrating, glowed like coals as he stared at his father. “I hate him, Papa,” he said in an impassioned voice. “You choose him always . . . ”

“Now, now, Cesare,” the cardinal said, amused. “The strength of a family, like the strength of an army, is in its loyalty to each other. Besides, it’s a mortal sin to hate one’s own brother, and there is no reason to endanger your immortal soul over such emotions.” He stood now, towering over them. Then he smiled as he patted his portly belly. “There is certainly enough of me for all of you . . . is there not?”

Rodrigo Borgia was a mountainous man, tall enough to carry his weight, handsome in a rugged rather than aristocratic way. His dark eyes often glimmered with amusement; his nose, though large, was not offensive looking; and his full sensual lips, usually smiling, gave him a generous appearance. But it was his personal magnetism, the intangible energy he radiated, that made everyone agree he was one of the most attractive men of his time.

“Chez, you can have my place,” his daughter now said to Cesare, in a voice so clear that the cardinal turned toward her with fascination. Lucrezia, standing with arms folded in front of her, her long blond ringlets hanging down over her shoulders, wore an expression of hard determination on her angelic face.

“You do not wish to hold your papa’s hand?” the cardinal asked, pretending a pout.

“It does not make me cry not to hold your hand,” she said. “And it does not make me angry.”

“Crezia,” Cesare said with real affection, “don’t be a donkey. Juan is just being a baby; he is most capable on his own.” He stared with distaste at his brother, who was quickly drying his tears with the smooth silk of his shirt sleeve.

The cardinal tousled Juan’s dark hair and reassured him. “Stop weeping. You may take my hand.” He turned to Cesare and said, “And my small warrior, you may take the other.” Then he looked at Lucrezia and gave her a broad smile. “And you, my sweet child? What shall your papa do with you?”

When the child’s expression remained unchanged and she showed no emotion, the cardinal was enchanted. He smiled with appreciation. “You are truly Papa’s girl, and as a reward for your generosity and bravery, you may sit in the single place of honor.”

Rodrigo Borgia reached down and quickly lifted the small girl high into the air to place her on his shoulders. And he laughed with pure joy. Now, as he walked with his elegant garments flowing gracefully, his daughter looked like another new and beautiful crown on the head of the cardinal.

That same day, Rodrigo Borgia moved his children into the Orsini Palace, across from his own at the Vatican. His widowed cousin, Adriana Orsini, cared for them and acted as governess, taking charge of their education. When Adriana’s young son, Orso, became engaged at thirteen, his fiancée, Julia Farnese, fifteen, moved into the palace to help Adriana care for the children.

Though the cardinal had the day-to-day responsibility of his children, they still visited their mother, who was now married to her third husband, Carlo Canale. As Rodrigo Borgia had chosen Vanozza’s two former husbands, he had chosen Canale, knowing a widow must have a husband to offer her protection and the reputation of a respectable house. The cardinal had been good to her, and what she hadn’t received from him, she had inherited from her two previous husbands. Unlike the beautiful but empty-headed courtesans of some of the aristocracy, Vanozza was a practical woman, which Rodrigo admired. She owned several well-kept inns and a country estate, which provided her with a significant income—and being a pious woman, she had built a chapel dedicated to the Madonna, in which she said her daily prayers.

Still, after ten years, their passion for each other seemed to cool and they became good friends.

Within weeks, Vanozza was forced to relinquish the baby, Jofre, to join his brothers and sister, for he had become inconsolable without them. And so it was that all of Rodrigo Borgia’s children were together under his cousin’s care.

As befitted the children of a cardinal, over the next few years they were taught by the most talented tutors in Rome. They were schooled in the humanities, astronomy and astrology, ancient history, and several languages including Spanish, French, English, and of course the language of the church, Latin. Cesare excelled because of his intelligence and competitive nature, but it was Lucrezia who showed the most promise, for above everything else, she had character and true virtue.

Though many young girls were sent to convents to be educated and dedicated to the saints, Lucrezia—with the cardinal’s permission, on the advice of Adriana—was dedicated to the Muses and taught by the same talented tutors as her brothers. Because she loved the arts, she learned to play the lute, to dance, and to draw. She excelled in embroidery—on fabrics of silver and gold.

As was her obligation, Lucrezia developed charms and talents that would increase her value in the marital alliances which would serve the Borgia family in the future. One of her favorite pastimes was writing poetry, and she spent long hours on verses of love and rapture for God as well as those of romantic love. She was particularly inspired by the saints, her heart often too full for words.

Julia Farnese indulged Lucrezia as a younger sister; Adriana and the cardinal both lavished Lucrezia with attention, and so she grew into a happy child with a pleasant disposition. Curious and easy to get along with, she disliked disharmony and made every effort to help keep the family peace.

One beautiful Sunday, after he had served High Mass at Saint Peter’s Basilica, Cardinal Borgia invited his children to join him at the Vatican. This was a rare and courageous act, for until the time of Pope Innocent all children of the clergy were proclaimed to be their nephews and nieces. To openly acknowledge paternity could endanger an important appointment to any high church office. Of course, the people knew that cardinals and even Popes had children—everyone knew they sinned—but as long as it was hidden beneath the mantle of “family” and the truth of the relationship posted only in secret parchments, the honor of the office was not tarnished. Everyone could believe as they wished, but the cardinal had little patience for hypocrisy. There were times, of course, that he himself was forced to alter or embellish the truth. But that was understandable, for he was after all a diplomat.

Adriana dressed the children in their finest garments for this special occasion: Cesare in black satin and Juan in white silk, and two-year-old Jofre in a blue velvet jumper edged with rich embroidery. Julia dressed Lucrezia in a long peach lace dress, and placed a small jeweled headpiece upon the little girl’s white-blond curls.

The cardinal had just finished reading an official document brought to him from Florence by his senior advisor, Duarte Brandao. The document concerned a certain Dominican friar known as Savonarola. It was rumored that he was a prophet, inspired by the Holy Ghost, but far more dangerous to the purposes of the cardinal, every ordinary citizen of Florence rushed to hear Savonarola’s sermons and responded with great fervor. He was an acclaimed visionary and an eloquent preacher whose fiery speeches often raged against the carnal and financial excesses of the papacy in Rome.

“We must keep an eye on this simple friar,” Rodrigo Borgia said. “For great dynasties have often been brought down by simple men who believe they have a holy truth.”

Brandao was tall and thin, with long black hair and elegant features. He appeared gentle and amiable, yet it was rumored about Rome that no one could match his wrath when faced with disloyalty or insolence. Everyone agreed that only a fool would dare to make an enemy of him. Now, Duarte brushed his mustache with his index finger as he considered the implications of what Rodrigo Borgia had just told him.

Duarte told the cardinal, “There is word that the friar also attacks the Medici from the pulpit, and the citizens of Florence cheer.”

When the children entered Rodrigo Borgia’s private chambers, the conversation halted. Duarte Brandao greeted them with a smile, then stood aside.

Lucrezia rushed into the cardinal’s arms with excitement, but the boys stood back, their hands behind them. “Come, my sons,” Rodrigo said, still holding his daughter in his arms. “Come and give Papa a kiss.” He waved them toward him with a warm and welcoming smile.

Cesare reached his father first. Rodrigo Borgia lowered Lucrezia onto the small golden stool at his feet, and embraced his son. He was a strong boy, tall and muscular. The father liked the feel of this son; it reassured him about his own future. Rodrigo loosened his hold on the boy and then held him at arm’s length so he could look at him. “Cesare,” he said, fondly, “I say a prayer of thanks to Our Blessed Madonna each day, for you gladden my heart each time I behold you.” Cesare smiled happily, pleased at his father’s approval.

Then Cesare moved aside to make way for Juan. It may have been the speed of the younger boy’s heart or its frantic beating against his own chest, it may have been the quickness of his breath, signaling his nervousness, but some part of Rodrigo responded to Juan’s frailty. And when the cardinal embraced this son, he hugged him more gently but held onto him a little longer.

Usually, when the cardinal ate alone in his chambers, he ate sparsely, only bread, fruit, and cheese. But on this day he had instructed his servants to provide a table filled to excess with pasta and poultry, oxen with special sweetmeats, and round mounds of candied chestnuts.

As the children, Adriana and her son Orso, and the beautiful and charming Julia Farnese sat around the table laughing and chattering, Rodrigo Borgia felt like a fortunate man. Surrounded by family and friends, life on this earth was good. Silently he said a prayer of gratitude. When his manservant poured the blood-red wine into his silver goblet, he was filled with goodwill. And so, in a gesture of affection, he offered the first sip to his son Juan, who was seated next to him.

But Juan tasted the wine and made a face. “It’s too bitter, Papa,” he said. “I don’t like it.”

Rodrigo Borgia, always alert, suddenly froze with fear. This was a sweet wine; there should be no bitterness . . .

Almost immediately the child complained of feeling sick, and doubled over with stomach pains. Both his father and Adriana tried to reassure him, but only moments later Juan began to vomit violently. The cardinal lifted the boy from his seat, carried him into an anteroom, and placed him on the brocade couch.

The Vatican physician was called immediately, but before he could make his way to the chambers Juan had lost consciousness.

“Poison,” the physician declared, after examining the child.

Juan was white as death and already feverish, a thin stream of black bile running from his lips. He looked quite small and helpless.

Now Rodrigo Borgia lost his holy composure. He became furious. “A poison meant for me . . . ” he said.

Duarte Brandao, who had been standing by, now drew his sword, alert and watchful for any further attempts to harm the cardinal or his family.

The cardinal turned to him. “There is an enemy inside the palace. Gather everyone together in the Main Chamber. Pour them each a goblet of wine and insist that they drink it. Then bring me the one who refuses.”

Adriana, concerned, whispered, “My dear cousin, Your Worthiness, I understand your grief, but in this way you will lose your most trusted servants, for many will become sick and some will die . . . ”

Rodrigo turned to her. “I will not offer them the wine that was offered my poor innocent son. The wine they are offered will be pure. But only the sinner will refuse to drink, for his fear will choke him before he lifts the cup to his lips.”

Duarte left at once to carry out the cardinal’s orders.

Juan lay still as stone, pale as death. Adriana, Julia, and Lucrezia sat at his side, wiping his forehead with wet cloths and healing ointments.

Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia lifted his son’s small limp hand and kissed it; then he walked to his private chapel and knelt before the statue of the Madonna to pray. He reasoned with her, for he knew she understood the loss of a son and the pain it caused. And he vowed, “I will do everything in my power, everything humanly possible, to bring the immortal souls of thousands to the one true church. Your church, Holy Mother. I will see to it that they worship your son, if only you will spare the life of mine . . . ”

Young Cesare was standing in the doorway to the chapel, and when the cardinal turned to see him there, he had tears in his eyes. “Come, Cesare. Come, my son. Pray for your brother,” the cardinal said. And Cesare went to kneel beside his father.

Back in the cardinal’s chambers, everyone sat in silence until Duarte came back to announce, “The culprit has been discovered. He is but a kitchen boy, formerly in the employ of the House of Rimini.”

Rimini was a small feudal province on the eastern coast of Italy, and its ruler, a local duke, Gaspare Malatesta, was a formidable enemy of Rome and the papacy. He was a big man, his body huge enough to hold the souls of two, and his massive face was pitted and craggy, but it was for his hair, crinkled wild and red, that he was known as “The Lion.”

Cardinal Borgia moved away from the side of his ailing son, and whispered to Duarte, “Ask the kitchen boy why he holds His Holiness in such contempt. Then be certain he drinks the bottle of wine from our table. Be certain he drinks it all.”

Duarte nodded. “And what would you have us do with him once the wine has taken effect?” he asked.

The cardinal, his eyes glowing, his face flushed, said, “Place him on an ass, tether him tight, and send him with a message to the Lion of Rimini. Tell him to begin to pray for forgiveness and make his peace with God.”

Juan lay as though in a deep sleep for several weeks, and the cardinal insisted he stay at his palace in the Vatican to be treated by his personal physician. While Adriana sat by his side, and several maidservants cared for him, Rodrigo Borgia spent hours in the chapel praying to the Madonna. “I will bring to the one true church the souls of thousands,” he promised fervently. “If only you will plead with the Christ to spare the life of my son.”

When his prayers were answered, and Juan recovered, the cardinal became even more committed to the Holy Catholic Church and to his family.

But Rodrigo Borgia knew that heaven alone could no longer secure his family’s safety. And so he understood there was one more action to be taken: he must send to Spain for Miguel Corello, also known as Don Michelotto.

This bastard nephew of Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia had felt the tug of fate from his beginnings. As a child in Valencia he was neither mean nor sadistic, yet he often found himself defending those souls whose goodness made them vulnerable to the bullying nature of others. For often, kindness is mistaken for weakness.

Miguel, from the time he was a child, accepted his destiny: to protect those who carried the torch of God and the Holy Roman Church into the world.

But Miguel was a strong boy, and as ferocious in his loyalty as in his actions. As a burly teenager it was said that he had been attacked by the most savage bandit in his village when he stood to defend the house of his mother, the cardinal’s sister.

Miguel was but sixteen at the time, when the bandit leader and several young vandals entered their house and tried to move the boy away from the wooden chest in which his mother’s precious holy relics and family linens were hidden. When Miguel, who seldom spoke, cursed the bandits and refused to move away, the leader slashed his face with a stiletto, cutting across his mouth deep into his cheek. As blood ran in great streams down his face and onto his chest, his mother screamed, his sister began to cry in loud sobs—but Miguel stood fast.

Finally, as neighbors gathered in the streets and began shouting, the bandit and his gang, fearing capture, ran out of the village and into the hills.

Several days later, when this same pack of bandits tried to reenter the village, they were met with resistance; and while most fled, the leader of the pack was captured by Miguel. In the morning this unfortunate bandit was found with a heavy rope around his neck, hanging from a large tree in the village square.

From that day forward, Miguel Corello’s reputation for fierceness spread throughout the principality of Valencia, and no one dared do injury to him or any of his friends or family for fear of retaliation. His face healed, though it scarred so that his mouth was set in a constant grimace; but no other damage had been done. Though on any other man this sneer would be a frightening sight, Miguel’s reputation for fairness, and the look of mercy that radiated from his golden brown eyes, made everyone who saw him recognize his good soul. It was then that the villagers fondly began to call him Don Michelotto, and he became well known as a man to be respected.

Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia reasoned that in each family some must stand forward in the light and preach the word of God. Yet behind them must be others, to provide safety and ensure them success in their holy endeavors. Those who sat on the throne of the church could not defend themselves from the evil of others without the help of a human hand, for this was the nature of the world in which they lived.

That young Don Michelotto had been called upon to play the role of the evildoer did not surprise either of them, for he was a superior man. His love of, and loyalty to, both the Heavenly Father and the Holy See was never in question, no matter the slurs to his character whispered by his enemies. For Rodrigo Borgia had no doubt that Don Michelotto would always surrender his will to that of the Heavenly Father and willingly act on the commands of the Holy Mother Church.

And as the cardinal believed that his actions were guided by divine inspiration, so Don Michelotto believed that his hands were guided by the same heavenly force, and so there was no question of sin. For each time he stopped the breath of an enemy of the cardinal or the church, was he not just returning those souls home to the judgment of the Heavenly Father?

And so it was, shortly after Juan’s recovery, that Rodrigo Borgia, who had grown up in Valencia and knew the blood that coursed through the heart of this Spaniard, called his nephew to Rome. Aware of the dangers in this foreign land, he now entrusted twenty-one-year-old Don Michelotto with the well-being of his family. And as the cardinal’s children grew older, they seldom turned without finding the shadow of Don Michelotto behind them.

Now, whenever the cardinal was in Rome and his duties as vice-chancellor didn’t force him away, he visited his children daily to talk and play with them, Don Michelotto often at his side. And at the first opportunity, he fled the fetid choking summer heat of Rome, with its narrow crowded streets, to take them to his magnificent retreat in the rich green countryside.