11

LUCREZIA HAD COME to join her father and brothers for the Easter festivities at the Vatican, and so she was in her apartments at her Palace of Santa Maria in Portico when Giovanni Sforza’s chamberlain came to her with an urgent message. Her husband had requested that she accompany him back to Pesaro, the man explained, for he found his stay in Rome oppressive and desired to escape the Pope’s vigilance.

Lucrezia listened, upset, as Julia began choosing some of Lucrezia’s things for her maidservant to pack. She had been incredibly lonely in Pesaro; here in Rome, she finally felt herself again.

“What am I to do?” she asked aloud as she paced. “In Pesaro, as in Rome, the duke seems not to care a goose’s egg for me; when he looks at me, it is with anything but affection. Yet now he wants to leave, with me at his side.”

Julia walked over to console her.

The chamberlain cleared his throat to summon his courage and asked for permission to speak. When it was granted he continued. “The duke of Pesaro indicates he is quite fond of the duchess. He longs for her company—if not in conversation, then just to be with him in his own duchy, where he is free to rule as he likes.”

“Well, my good man,” Lucrezia said, “that is his desire, and he wishes to have it his way. But what will become of me if I return? I will wither and die of loneliness. There is nothing to interest me in Pesaro.”

Impatient with Lucrezia, for she knew the torment it would cause Alexander, Julia excused herself and left the room.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and Lucrezia heard her brother’s voice calling. “Crezia, it’s Chez. May I enter?”

Quickly she ordered the chamberlain to conceal himself behind her dressing screen. She warned him not to move or make a sound, for his carelessness could cost him his life. Her brother’s dislike for the duke had enraged him of late, and she didn’t want another scene.

The little man moved silently behind the screen and covered himself with one of Lucrezia’s robes, placing other garments over his head to hide himself completely should Cesare walk too close or choose to search his sister’s chambers.

When Cesare entered, the first thing he did was kiss Lucrezia. He seemed pleased. “Father has decided to grant your wish for a divorce. He is quite certain that that swine Giovanni Sforza has not given us an advantage, and now that Milan is again aligned with the French, he is of no use to us. Also, and even more important, Father is displeased that he has not made you happy.”

Lucrezia sat on the divan and offered Cesare a seat next to her. But he refused, and walked around the room instead.

“But what will you tell Giovanni?” she asked him. “How shall a divorce be accomplished? He is not a heretic, and has committed no treason except to cause me unhappiness . . . ”

Cesare smiled. “And is that not crime enough?” he asked.

Lucrezia’s eyes lit up with amusement. “Though I think it the most heinous, I fear it will not be seen through the same eyes by others.”

Cesare became more serious. “Father will not chance a legal divorce. It would cause too great a scandal. He has ordered that Giovanni must be made to vanish.”

Lucrezia stood and frowned at her brother. “Chez, you cannot allow that. Giovanni is a brute and a bore, certainly. But much of my unhappiness with him is that he is not you! And though that too is a crime, it is not one that deserves the punishment you suggest.”

“And would you choose to tell the Holy Father that you refuse to obey his orders? Would you bring the fires of hell down upon you for Giovanni, who acts like such a pig?” Cesare asked.

Lucrezia studied her brother. “Did anyone ask the duke of Pesaro if he would consider willingly dissolving this marriage before you consider the extreme measures of a dagger or poison?”

Cesare answered, “Father asked, Giovanni refused. There is nothing left to speak about.”

Lucrezia’s voice was filled with determination. “Then speak again to the Holy Father, and your own father as well, to say that I will not agree to endanger my soul with such an action. For hell is eternal, and despite many of my own sins, I hold the hope of a merciful God and an eternity in heaven.”

Cesare lowered his head and rubbed his eyes with resignation. “Crezia, something must be done to end this masquerade, and it must be done quickly.”

“There is nothing I wish more than to be rid of the duke,” Lucrezia explained. “And this is no secret to you, my brother. But it is your soul, and Father’s, that I am concerned about, as well as my own. I can play no part in taking the life of another for worldly advantage alone.”

Cesare had been certain his sister would be pleased when he brought her the news of the Pope’s decision on her marriage, and her reaction disappointed him. He had intended to free her from the beast who had kept them apart and make himself her savior. Now he was angry, and just before he stormed out of his sister’s chambers, he shouted: “To be caught between you and Father, my dear sister, is to be caught in the grip of the metal tongs of a vise. There is no escape. So now I ask you—what would you have me do?”

“Do not betray yourself, my dear brother, not to betray another,” Lucrezia warned.

Once she was certain Cesare had gone, Lucrezia went behind the screen to rescue Giovanni’s chamberlain, who was shaking so forcefully that his trembling could be seen from beneath the garments he had heaped upon himself. As she began to uncover the poor man, she whispered, “Have you heard what was said?”

His eyes wide with fright, he answered quickly. “Not a word, Duchess. Not a single word.”

“My God, are you a pod without seeds? Go quickly. Tell the duke all you have heard. Tell him to make haste. I, for one, do not want the stain of his blood on my hands. Now go . . . ”

And with that she led the chamberlain out through a side door of the palace.

When the breathless chamberlain reached the Borgia apartments where Giovanni was staying and confided in him what he had overheard, Giovanni Sforza went quickly to the Pope. He asked the Pope to be excused from evening vespers, for he felt the need to ride to the church of Saint Onofrio, outside Rome, to make a holy confession.

This Alexander accepted, for it was Holy Week, and it was well known that during this time, at this particular church, a sinner could receive a special indulgence which would rid his soul of all sins. Both Cesare and the Pope, knowing what was being planned for Giovanni, felt it their obligation to permit him to confess at the church of his choice, and so he was allowed to go.

But the moment Giovanni reached the church, he mounted a prize Turkish horse that had been placed there by the commander of his own troops in Pesaro. Driven by his fear, he whipped the horse harshly, and rode without stopping for twenty-four hours until he reached Pesaro. There at the gates, the horse—exhausted from the journey, foam bubbling from his mouth—fell to his knees and quickly died.

Giovanni Sforza, who was fonder of animals than of men, was heartbroken. He instructed his stable master to have the horse buried with great ceremony, and for days thereafter he stayed in his rooms without eating or speaking to anyone. Not one of the citizens of Pesaro could determine whether he was more desolate over the loss of his wife or his horse.

Lucrezia was angry with her father for not speaking directly to her about his plans, and thereby denying her the opportunity to make known her concerns. Once she discovered that the Pope had sent a papal lawyer to Pesaro to demand an annulment from Giovanni on the only grounds a committee would accept—that of impotence—Lucrezia decided what she must do. Though she had no love for the duke, reason alone would dictate that if he were forced to admit to a weakness that was both embarrassing and untrue, he would resist with the truth he must suspect about herself and her brother. And especially at this time, she was loath to let that happen.

For it was she, because of Cesare, who had—after that first night—refused to sleep in his bed, and had seldom done her wifely duty. Though the admission of impotence was less lethal than poison or a dagger, it was still a mortal blow to one of such arrogance. He would be forced to retaliate, and that would endanger the Pope as well as the entire Borgia family.

The following morning she woke at dawn, and gathered several of her ladies-in-waiting to accompany her to the Convent of San Sisto—for she was aware that a convent was the only refuge for women who would escape the authority of both their husbands and their fathers. Her choice was both simple and virtuous.

But Julia and Adriana tried to convince her otherwise.

“The Holy Father will not rest while you are gone,” Adriana told her. “And he will not accept your plan to leave without resistance.”

Lucrezia was determined. “He will not prevent me, for he will not know until well after I am on my way.”

Julia pleaded with her, for she knew how unhappy the Pope would be. “Dear sister, give the Holy Father a chance to dissuade you. Give our father an opportunity to explain his reasoning. You know how miserable he becomes whenever you are absent from the Vatican . . . ”

But Lucrezia turned to her with annoyance. “I will not change the direction of my plans. And if, Julia, you wish the Holy Father, and my father as well, not to be unhappy, I suggest you entertain him in the ways he expects of you. I have no further need to please him, for he has considered neither my position nor the Heavenly Father’s in his decisions.”

Adriana tried once more. “Lucrezia, you have said so often that you are unhappy—and yet now when the father who loves you tries to extract the writ of divorce or annulment from the husband that you yourself have so slandered, you turn your back and reject your father as well. Where does reason lie in this?”

Lucrezia’s eyes filled, but she could not afford to doubt herself, for then all she loved would be lost. Without a word, she embraced both Adriana and Julia, and gave them instructions. “Do not say a word to the Holy Father for half a day. If he asks, tell him I am in the chapel on my knees in prayer and do not wish to be disturbed.”

Then she turned to one of her most loyal ladies-in-waiting and handed her a letter she had penned the night before. “Please take this to my brother, the cardinal. Be sure to place it in his own hand and no other.”

Pope Alexander, in all matters of church and state, was a reasonable man. In matters of the heart and in his dealings with his children, he was far less reasonable. And so when he was informed of his daughter’s departure from her palace and her intention to stay within the walls of the Convent of San Sisto, he was both grief-stricken and enraged.

What did it matter if a man became Pope if he couldn’t command even his own daughter? How was it that his once-sweet child could kneel before the Holy Father and with true respect kiss his ring and his holy foot, and yet disobey her own father without consideration?

He called Cesare to him, and Duarte Brandao. Then he sent for Michelotto.

Once they were gathered in his chambers, he asked, “What is it that I have done to my own child, of whom I am so fond, to cause her to desert me in this way?”

Cesare, his head lowered, said nothing.

Duarte, his dark eyes compassionate, said, “It may be a call to the service of the Heavenly Father, Your Worthiness.”

“Duarte, please,” the Pope said. “Don’t humor me, as though I’m a feeble old dunce. There is something I do not know, something that has escaped my understanding.”

Duarte nodded. “My intention was not to humor you, Holy Father, for I meant no disrespect, but to dissuade you from blaming yourself for the actions of this child of yours. For, in truth, she is no longer a child. And she is either running toward a greater promise, or running from a greater threat.”

“And what could that be?” Alexander asked as he turned to Cesare.

Cesare’s gaze met his father’s. And in that moment the fire in his father’s eyes seared his own. They had never in all these years spoken of the love that mattered most to Cesare, for he feared it would matter even more to his father. And in any battle of love and power with Alexander, Cesare was certain he would lose. For the Pope expected their loyalty to him to count above all else on earth. To reveal the truth of the relationship between himself and his sister would ignite a spiritual inferno.

Cesare had spoken of it to no one; even when drunk and bedded down with courtesans, he had managed to hold his tongue. The servants of the court would certainly never speak of it, for fear they would be beheaded. But could his father, as the Holy Father, divinely inspired, see into the soul of his son? Cesare wondered.

Suddenly the fiery mask on the face of the Pope softened and he smiled. “My friend, Don Michelotto. Choose for me a messenger to travel daily to the convent. I have no doubt my daughter will relent. Make certain the young man is of good character, and intelligent. He must be well groomed and appealing, so my dear Lucrezia will accept my messages and eventually be convinced to return home.”

Don Michelotto did as he was commanded. He chose for messenger a young man called Perotto, whom he knew Alexander favored. A musician and a poet, the boy served the Pope as a messenger in return for his keep and his salvation. More highly educated than many of the others in court, he had come from Spain to spend time in Rome after hearing of its beauty. He was honest and deeply devoted to the church, and Alexander trusted him completely.

When Alexander placed the first message to Lucrezia into Perotto’s hand, he did so knowing that if Perotto could not bring it to her it was because he had been slaughtered in the hills on his way. That much trust he had in this young man.

When Lucrezia first met Perotto in the garden of the convent, she tried to refuse the message he brought from the Pope. “I do not wish to engage in any disagreements with the Holy Father,” she told Perotto. “And the way to do that is never to begin.”

Perotto, his long blond hair tied back, his light eyes sparkling, just nodded cheerfully. “I understand, Duchess. I only impose on your goodwill for I believe this message concerns an issue of importance.”

Lucrezia looked at him, shook her head, and turned to walk away. She sat on one of the stone benches on the far side of the garden and considered what to do.

But instead of turning to go, or leaving the message where she could reach it, Perotto disappeared for a few moments and then returned with a guitar. He asked Lucrezia’s permission to sit on the grass and play his music.

She frowned; but he had a sweet and pleasant face, and life in the convent bored her, so finally she consented. “Play if you will,” she told him.

Lucrezia was surprised to find that when Perotto sang, his voice was as pleasing as his song. It had been so long since she had been in male company that she found herself smiling.

When he had finished, her spirits lifted, and she asked for the message. Perotto, smiling, gave it to her.

The message was quite formal. Her father told her that negotiations for her annulment were still under way, and that some progress had been made. That Giovanni was considering the benefices and compensation that had been offered. Alexander told her that if she had any concerns, she should pen them, for the messenger would return the following day with further news.

She went inside her apartments in the convent, sat at her desk, and wrote a short formal response to the Pope. In it she told him she hoped he was well, and she thanked him for his efforts on her behalf. But she signed it only “Lucrezia Borgia,” and so when he received it and read it, he knew she was still angry with him.

The following day, Alexander awoke determined to put the matter of Lucrezia’s divorce behind him. The business of the papacy was going reasonably well, and once he completed his morning prayers he was free to devote the rest of the day to settling family business.

Cesare also awoke in a pleasant mood, and so when he came to join his father, he said, “It may be time to consider another festival, for those in the city are restless, and they need something to celebrate before they cause themselves trouble.”

“Yes,” Alexander agreed. “I myself could use a carnival, for the business of the church has caused me to become far too serious.”

Just then, Plandini, the chief clerk, announced the arrival of Ludovico Sforza and his nephew, Giovanni.

They all sat around a small marble table and were served platters of cheese, fruit, and wine. After exchanging some pleasantries, Alexander turned to Sforza with a sober expression. “Ludovico, I can no longer spin in circles. I have invited you here today to finalize plans for divorce.”

Ludovico, his wine goblet frozen in midair, appeared surprised. But it took him only moments to recover. “Your Holiness, there is no need of divorce, if you are speaking of Giovanni and your sweet daughter, Lucrezia.”

Giovanni nodded, but said nothing.

Alexander then removed himself from the table and began to pace around the room. “There is such a need for divorce, Ludovico. Giovanni left the city for months to stay in Pesaro. Lucrezia was left alone in Rome.”

Ludovico stood up and moved into the sitting area, and Giovanni followed. “My nephew left Rome because of threats from your son, Excellency,” Ludovico explained apologetically.

Cesare had not left the table; he sat finishing his wine.

Alexander turned to him. “Is this true, my son? Threats?”

Cesare responded with complete composure. “I never make threats. If a man angers me, I challenge him to a duel.” He shook his head now. “I don’t remember challenging you, Giovanni. Did I?” He looked at his brother-in-law, with eyes dark and cold.

The two men disliked each other enormously. “You must admit, you were not a gracious brother-in-law,” Giovanni said arrogantly.

Ludovico, becoming nervous, addressed the Pope in a honeyed tone. “Your Holiness. Giovanni returned to Rome. The two young people could live happily together in Pesaro, as a married couple. But Lucrezia—no, Lucrezia refused. She wanted Rome.”

Now all were seated in the Pope’s study.

Alexander became impatient. “Ludovico, my friend. We could argue all day, yet both of us have more to do. There can be only one conclusion here. Giovanni and Lucrezia must be divorced. We sympathize with both your concerns and your nephew’s feelings. But for the good of the church, it must be done.”

“The church?” Ludovico said, perplexed.

Now both he and Alexander stood and began to pace the floor, together. “Holy Father,” Ludovico whispered. “I’m certain Giovanni would agree to a divorce, if it could be on the grounds that the marriage was never valid.” He cleared his throat before he added, “For Lucrezia was already betrothed to the Spaniard.”

Alexander turned and placed his hand on Ludovico’s shoulder. “Ludovico, Ludovico,” he said. “Oh, that this distraction could be cleared up so easily. But the ruling body, the holy commission, disagrees.”

Ludovico’s voice dropped lower still. “You could always issue a bull.”

Alexander nodded. “You are correct, my friend,” he said. “I could. If she were another man’s daughter.” Then the Pope turned to face Ludovico, and spoke in a voice of authority. “The only possible ground is impotence. The admission that the marriage was never consummated. This, both the citizens and the commission will understand. And we have Lucrezia’s written statement.”

Giovanni jumped to his feet, his face flushed and red. “She lies. I am not impotent, and I will never confess that I am.”

Ludovico turned to him, and in a stern voice commanded him to relent. “Sit, Giovanni. We must find a way to accommodate the Holy Father.” Il Moro knew that he needed the Pope, for he feared that Milan could be swallowed up by the French at any time, and he might one day need the papal armies and their Spanish support.

Now Cesare spoke in words of stone. “I believe I have a solution. Crezia says one thing, Giovanni says another. And I propose a test. We can gather the members of both families in a large reception room. And into that room we can move a comfortable bed. In that bed we will place an attractive courtesan, a healthy, enthusiastic one. Then Giovanni will slip into the bed next to her, and prove his manhood one way or another.”

Giovanni was appalled. “In front of both families? I will not. I will not agree to any such thing!”

The Pope now approached Ludovico. “Well, then, the matter is settled. Giovanni has refused the opportunity to prove himself, and so we must conclude, as any court would, that Lucrezia’s statement is true. Of course, we will treat Giovanni generously, for he did what he could as a husband, and we are not here to lay blame.”

Giovanni tried to speak, but his uncle stopped him, pulling him aside. “Our entire family will disown you if you do not agree. You will lose your title and your land. At this moment, though you are no longer a husband, you are still a duke. And that is no small thing.”

Later that day, Cesare sat at his desk in his own chambers and reread the message his sister had sent the day before. His handsome face reflected the sadness he felt, for to be separated from Lucrezia left him with a deep ache and longing. But there was something more he was concerned about. His hand trembled slightly as he read the message again and again.

One line seemed to stand out on the page: “I am not at liberty, at this time, to discuss the matter which is of utmost importance to us.”

It was the formality of her letter, her insistence on not giving him any information, that drew his attention. It was all she didn’t say. And he knew his sister well enough to understand she had a secret that, once told, could place them all in grave danger.