by Mario Puzo
Alexander had chosen her brother Juan to accompany her down the aisle, and she knew Cesare was angry. But Lucrezia thought it better, for she knew that Cesare never could give her away gracefully. She wondered now if he would even attend, though orders from their father would leave him little choice. If there was a disagreement, she knew Cesare would gallop away again and ride into the country. But she prayed this time he wouldn’t, for it was Cesare she wanted there most; it was him she loved above all.
The wedding took place in the Great Hall of the Vatican over the objections of the traditional church leaders and the other princes of the church, who believed the holy halls should be peopled only by men concerned with official church business. But the Pope wanted Lucrezia married at the Vatican, and so it was.
On a raised platform placed at the very front of the hall stood the throne of the Pope, with six burgundy velvet seats on each side for the Pope’s twelve newly elected cardinals. In the Pope’s private chapel, which was smaller and sparser than the Main Chapel of Saint Peter, he had instructed there be placed rows and rows of tall silver and gold torches, to burn before statues of enormous marble saints which graced the sides of the altar.
The presiding bishop, dressed in flowing ceremonial vestments, his silver miter crowning his head, chanted his prayers aloud in Latin, and offered the bride and bridegroom holy blessings.
The incense burning during the benediction seemed especially pungent. It had arrived from the East just a few days before, as a gift from Prince Djem’s brother, the Turkish Sultan Bayezid II. The thick white smoke burned Lucrezia’s throat, compelling her to hide a cough with her lace handkerchief. The vision of the crucified Jesus on the huge wooden cross seemed as ominous to Lucrezia as the great sword of fidelity the bishop held above her head as the young couple exchanged their vows.
Finally, she caught a glimpse of her brother Cesare at the entrance of the chapel. She had been troubled that his seat at the altar alongside the other cardinals had been conspicuously empty.
Lucrezia had spent the night before on her knees in prayer to the Madonna, asking for forgiveness, after sneaking through the tunnel into her brother Cesare’s room to have him claim her once again. She wondered why she felt such joy with him, and such dread at the thought of another. She didn’t even know this man who was to be her husband. She had seen him only once, from her balcony, and when they had been in the same room the day before, he had not spoken a word to her, or in any way acknowledged her existence.
Now, as they kneeled on small golden stools in front of the altar and she heard the first words from her bridegroom—“I will take this woman as my wife”—she thought his voice a graceless and unpleasant sound.
As though in a trance, Lucrezia agreed to honor him as her husband. But her gaze and her heart were fixed on Cesare, dressed in solemn priestly black, now standing alongside her brother Juan. He never looked at her.
Afterward, in one of the great halls of the Vatican—the Sala Reale—Lucrezia Borgia sat in splendor at the special raised table. Alongside her were her bridegroom, Giovanni, her governess, Adriana, and Julia Farnese, whom she had chosen as her maid of honor. The granddaughter of the late Pope Innocent, Battestina, also shared her table, as did other bridesmaids, but her three brothers sat at a table across the room. Many of the guests were seated on the hundreds of pillows placed on the floor. Around the perimeter of the hall there were several huge tables filled with food and sweetmeats, and once the guests had eaten the center of the hall was cleared so that they could watch the theater players perform. Later, there would be dancers and singers to entertain them.
Several times Lucrezia looked at her bridegroom, but he ignored her and spent much of his time stuffing food and spilling wine into his mouth. Disgusted, she looked away.
On this day that was meant to be a great celebration, Lucrezia, for one of the few times in her life, missed her mother. For now that Julia was the mistress of the Pope, there was no place for Vanozza at the palace.
As she glanced again at her new husband, she wondered if she might ever get used to his grim expression. The thought of leaving her home in Rome to live with him in Pesaro filled her with despair, and she was grateful for her father’s promise that she would not have to leave for a year.
Surrounded by the gaiety and laughter of the guests, Lucrezia felt incredibly lonely. She wasn’t hungry, but she did take several sips of the fine red wine that had been poured into her silver goblet, and soon felt giddy. She began to chatter to her bridesmaids and finally she began to have a good time. For after all it was a party, and she was thirteen years old.
Later, Pope Alexander announced there would be a dinner that evening in his private apartments, where the gifts for the bride and groom could be presented. Before he left the Vatican hall for his own chambers, he instructed his servants to toss the remaining sweets from the balcony to the crowds of citizens in the piazza below so that they could share in the festivities.
It was well past midnight when Lucrezia had a chance to speak to her father. He was sitting alone at his desk, for most of the guests had gone and only her brothers and a few of the cardinals were left waiting in the antechamber.
Lucrezia approached the Pope hesitantly, for she did not want to offend him, but this was far too important to wait. She kneeled in front of him and bent her head waiting for permission to speak.
Pope Alexander smiled and encouraged her. “Come, my child. Tell Papa what is on your mind.”
Lucrezia looked up, her eyes glistening but her face pale from the events of the day. “Papa,” she said, in a barely audible voice. “Papa, must I go to the bedchamber with Giovanni this very night? Must you witness the contract so soon?”
The Pope raised his eyes to the heavens. He too had been thinking about the bedchamber, for more hours than he cared to acknowledge. “If not now, when?” he asked the child.
“Just a little while longer,” she said.
“It is best to get unpleasantries over with as soon as possible,” he said, smiling gently at his daughter. “Then you may continue your life without the sword hanging over your head.”
Lucrezia took a deep breath and sighed. “Must my brother Cesare be present?” she asked.
Pope Alexander frowned. “What does it matter?” he asked. “As long as your papa is there. For the contract to be valid, any three witnesses will serve.”
Lucrezia nodded then and said with determination, “I prefer he not be there.”
“If that is your wish,” the Pope said, “that is how it shall be.”
Both Giovanni and Lucrezia were reluctant as they made their way into the bridal chamber: he because he still missed his first wife who had died, and she because she was embarrassed to be watched, and loath to allow anyone but Cesare to touch her. Now, she was so dizzy nothing seemed to matter. She had looked for her brother, but he had slipped away, and so she had quickly swallowed three more goblets of wine before she could avail herself of the courage to do what she knew she must.
Inside the chamber she and Giovanni undressed with the help of their servants, and both slipped under the white satin sheets, being careful not to allow their flesh to touch before the witnesses arrived.
When the Pope entered he sat on the velvet chair, facing a large tapestry of the Crusades on which he could focus and pray. In his hands he held jeweled rosary beads. The second seat was taken by Cardinal Ascanio Sforza and the third by Julia’s brother, Cardinal Farnese, who had suffered the humiliation of being called the “petticoat cardinal” after his investiture by Alexander.
Giovanni Sforza didn’t say a word to Lucrezia; instead he just leaned over, his face too close to hers, and grabbed her shoulder roughly to pull her toward him. He tried to kiss her, but she turned her face away and hid in his neck. He smelled like an ox. And when he began to run his hands over her, she felt her body shiver with revulsion. For an instant she was afraid she would be sick to her stomach, and hoped someone had thought to place a chamberpot
alongside the bed. When suddenly she felt an overwhelming sadness, she thought she might weep. But by the time he mounted her, she felt nothing. She had closed her eyes and willed herself away, to a place in her mind where she ran through tall reeds and rolled in a meadow of soft green grass . . . to Silverlake, the one place she felt free.
The following morning, when Lucrezia rushed to greet Cesare as he walked from the Vatican Palace to the stables, she could see at once that he was upset. She tried to reassure him but he couldn’t listen. And so she stood silent and still as she watched him harness his horse to leave.
It was two days before Cesare returned. He told her he had spent time in the country thinking about his future, and her. He had forgiven her, he said, but that made her angry. “What is there to forgive? I did what I must, as you do. You are always complaining about being a cardinal,” she said. “But I would rather be a cardinal than a woman!”
Cesare shot back, “We must both be what the Holy Father wishes us to be, for I would rather be a soldier than a cardinal! So neither of us has what we want!”
Cesare understood that the most important battle he must fight would be the exercise of his own free will. For love can steal free will using no weapon but itself. And Cesare did love his father. Yet he had studied his father’s strategies long enough to know what Alexander was capable of, and he knew that he himself would never stoop to such treachery. In Cesare’s mind, to take from a man his possessions, his riches, even his life, was a far lesser crime than to rob him of his free will. For without that he is a mere puppet of his own need, a beast of burden yielding to the snap of another man’s whip. And he swore he would not be that beast.
Though Cesare understood what his father had done by asking him to bed Lucrezia, he thought himself equal to the task of loving her. After that first claim, he tricked himself into believing that it had been his choice. And yet there was a hidden card. Lucrezia loved with a heart full enough to tame the wildest beast, and so, without knowing it, she became the whip used by her father.
Lucrezia began to cry, and Cesare hugged her then, and tried to comfort her. “It will be all right, Crezia,” he said. He stood for a long time, smoothing her blond curls, holding her. Finally, he dried her tears and said, “Don’t concern yourself with that three-legged quail Sforza. For despite all, we’ll always have each other.”
6
LUDOVICO SFORZA, THE man known as Il Moro, was the power in the great city-state of Milan. Though he was the regent, not the duke, he ruled. He had claimed his authority by default of his weak and spiritless nephew.
Though the name Il Moro conjured up a swarthy darkness, he was a tall elegant man with the light blond good looks of the Italians of the north, intelligent and sensitive to the world of the mind and reason. It could be said that he was more enamored of ancient myth than of religion. He was confident and self-assured when things were going well, less confident during times of adversity. He commanded the respect of his citizens, and though he was sometimes unscrupulous and often devious in his political dealings, he was a merciful ruler whose compassion imposed a tax upon his wealthier citizens to support homes and hospitals for the poor.
The citizens of Milan, a city considered the home of discovery, embraced the new culture of humanism, and Il Moro and his wife, Beatrice d’Este, did many things to improve conditions. They renovated and decorated the castles, painted the drab houses of the city in the bright colors of the new art, and cleaned the streets to remove the stench so that the air could be breathed without lemon-scented gloves or half-cut oranges held under the noses of the nobility. Moreover, he paid the finest tutors to teach at the universities, for he appreciated the importance of education.
It was Il Moro’s wife—the beautiful and ambitious Beatrice d’Este of Ferrara—who, many years before, had encouraged him to claim the crown from his nephew, Gian. For once Beatrice had a son, she was troubled that her heirs would have no legal right to their kingdom.
For thirteen years, Ludovico ruled as regent without opposition from his nephew, the duke, and Milan grew to be a city filled with art and culture. But then Gian married a young woman of hot temper and resolve: Avia of Naples, the granddaughter of the dreaded King Ferrante.
Once Avia had two sons—who she swore were forced to live as commoners because of Il Moro—she complained to her husband, the duke. But he was quite content to have his uncle rule Milan and offered no resistance. Now Avia had no choice. She took the matter to her grandfather, King Ferrante. She wrote letter after letter and had them brought daily by messenger to Naples. Finally, Ferrante was outraged, both at the slight to his family, and by the annoying content and frequency of the letters. He was, after all, a king, and a king could not tolerate this insult to his granddaughter. And so he determined to exact vengeance on Milan and restore Avia to her rightful place on the throne.
Now, informed of the king’s anger by his secret advisors, and fearing Ferrante’s ruthless tactics, Il Moro re-examined his position. The military force of Naples was legendary—strong and skilled. Milan would have no chance to defend itself without help.
Then, as though sent from the heavens by benevolent forces, Il Moro received word that King Charles of France was preparing his army for an invasion to claim the crown of Naples. Taking drastic action, Il Moro broke with tradition and immediately sent an invitation to King Charles, offering him and his troops safe passage through Milan on his way south to conquer Naples.
At the Vatican, Pope Alexander was reassessing his political position in light of the news of the French invasion and Il Moro’s shortsightedness. He had called for Cesare early that morning to discuss new strategies when Duarte Brandao visited his chambers to inform him of the new threat to the papacy.
“It has come to my attention,” he explained, “that King Ferrante of Naples has sent a message to his cousin, King Ferdinand of Spain, stating his concerns about your allegiance to Il Moro, and the Vatican’s position in regard to Milan now that France is readying its troops.”
Cesare nodded knowingly. “He’s heard about my sister’s betrothal to Giovanni Sforza, no doubt. And he’s distressed about our alliance with Milan.”
Alexander nodded. “As well he might be. And what was the good King Ferdinand’s response?”
“He refused to interfere in our affairs, for the time,” Duarte said.
Pope Alexander laughed. “He is an honorable man. He remembers that it was I who delivered the dispensation allowing him to marry his first cousin, Isabella of Castile. And it was because of that proclamation that the countries of Spain and Castile were united, expanding the Aragonese empire.”
“It would be wise to consider sending an ambassador to Naples with an accommodation . . . ” Duarte suggested. “And to reassure him of our loyalty to Spain and the house of Aragon.”
Alexander agreed. “We will offer Ferrante a marital alliance as well. For should Milan have what Naples does not?”
“Father, it is to my regret that here I can do you no good,” Cesare, now enjoying himself, said. “For I am, after all, a cardinal of the Holy Roman Catholic Church.”
Later that night, Alexander, alone in his chambers, stared into the dark night sky and pondered the ways of men. As the Holy Father he came to a chilling conclusion: fear makes men act even against their own best interest. It changes them from men of reason to blubbering fools, or why else would Il Moro align himself with France where there was no chance of victory for him? Could he not divine that once an army entered the city, every citizen was in danger? The women, the children, the men were at risk. Now, the Pope sighed. It was at these times that he found the knowledge of his own infallibility a comfort.
Even in the most treacherous of times, some men prove to be more evil than other men. Cruelty pulses through their hearts and veins, bringing them to life and awakening their senses. And so they suffer the same exhilaration when torturing their fellow man that most men feel when making love. They hold to a punishing and powerful God, on
e of their own invention, and with warped religious fervor create themselves in the vision of this illusion. King Ferrante of Naples was one of those men. And in an unfortunate circumstance for his enemies, he found even more rapture in mental torture than in physical.
He was a man of short stature, bulky and olive-skinned with unruly coarse black eyebrows so thick they concealed his eyes and made him look thoroughly menacing. That same coarse hair covered his entire body, ofttimes emerging from the neckline of his royal garments and from his sleeves like the fur of some primitive beast. When he was a young man, he had removed his own two front teeth when he contracted an almost fatal infection. Later, because of his vanity, he had ordered the royal blacksmith to forge him new teeth of gold. He seldom smiled, but when he did, he looked particularly sinister. It was rumored throughout all of Italy that Ferrante never carried a weapon and had little need of bodyguards, for with those gold teeth, he could tear the flesh from the bodies of his enemies.
As ruler of Naples, the most powerful territory on the Italian mainland, Ferrante inspired unholy dread in everyone. When enemies fell into his hands he chained them in cages, and strolled through his dungeons each day gloating with pleasure over his “zoo.” And once the torn and broken bodies of his prisoners finally gave up their will and released their souls to heaven, Ferrante would have them embalmed and placed back in their cages, to remind those who still clung to life that stopping their hearts would not stop his pleasure.
Even his most loyal servants did not escape Ferrante’s rapacious appetite for cruelty. He took from them what he could, in both favors and money, and then cut them down while they slept in their beds, so they had not one moment’s peace while they lived.