by Sarah Dunant
No one had said anything to him about a child until he had arrived in Rome and his father had broken the news. The fact that Pedro had not sniffed it out was not something he could be blamed for. On the contrary, it was proof of how his father’s strategies of containment and privacy had worked, though Cesare still feels cheated not to have been told earlier. Well, in the end it is not of great importance. A baby girl means nothing but an expensive marriage fifteen years down the line. No threat there.
He had been courteous, but had taken no interest in the child. Giulia could barely hold his eye. She was, if anything, more beautiful, her body more rounded and womanly after the birth and her face radiant. She had entered his father’s life when he was away studying and they had met only twice before. If she had been any other young woman he would have bedded her long ago. But there is something in this recent fecundity that almost disgusts him now, makes him angry in a way he does not understand. She had felt it faster than he did, and as soon as it was polite had excused herself, and she, the baby, the wet-nurses and her endless, endless hair had gone to another part of the palace, so that brother and sister could be alone together.
‘She is not my mother,’ he mutters angrily.
‘No. She is loving and kind to Papà.’ Lucrezia thinks of the animal sounds in the night. ‘And he to her. It is not as everyone thinks.’
‘Ah, Lucrezia, the world would be a lesser place if you thought as everyone else did.’
‘I mean it. She makes him happy.’
‘I mean it too. You are a loyal and loving daughter. And sister.’
‘Oh, Cesare,’ she laughs in delight, reaching over and taking his hand, ‘I hope my husband is as fine and handsome as you.’
‘Such a thing would be impossible.’ He flips her hand over in his, spreading her fingers out to expose her palm. ‘See? It is written here. “Not as handsome as your brother”.’ He moves his finger over her skin. ‘Ah! But I also see that he is not the only husband you might have. And here, here is your life line. I can even see when you will die.’
‘No! You can really see all that? When, when will it be?’
He pulls her hand closer, his fingers running over the mound near her thumb and up towards the underside of her wrist where the skin is almost translucent. She shivers under the caress. ‘Not for a long time.’
‘And how many husbands?’ she says eagerly.
‘Oh, three, maybe four.’ He looks up at her and her eyes are bright with affection. ‘But you will never love them as much as you love me. For we are bound in blood and no man can come as close.’ He grins. ‘Nor be as handsome.’
‘That is not how a good courtier should talk!’ she laughs, pulling her hand back as if he might be hurting her. ‘You should keep such dark magic to yourself.’
‘It is no darker than looking for your husband’s face in a pail of water.’
‘Who told you about that?’
‘I know everything about you, remember. You are my sister.’
‘Well, you had better be careful then. For I am sure I have some secrets about you.’ She grins and for a moment they are almost children again, unperturbed by the gravity of the world around them.
‘Papà says that I will marry in the newly decorated chambers of the Vatican palace,’ she says at last. ‘Imagine that. With our pictures on the wall. Though I am not sure they will be finished in time. Johannes Burchard is arranging it all.’ She makes a face. ‘He reminds me of a toad.’
‘Too thin. He is more a lizard. Those flaps under his chin.’
She giggles. ‘And the eyes.’ She flicks her own back and forwards, cold, blinking. She pauses. ‘You know that Juan is to give me away.’
No, he did not know this. She can see it in the way he freezes slightly.
‘But I will dance with you first,’ she says fiercely. ‘Well, after my husband.’
Across the courtyard, the figure of Michelotto appears, his ravaged face sitting uncomfortably against the smooth velvet of his doublet. ‘My Lady Lucrezia.’ He bows low before her. She nods, dropping her eyes immediately.
‘Your Excellency,’ he says with exaggerated formality. ‘There is a messenger arrived from Mantua. With news of the horses you ordered.’
‘As you see, I am busy. Tell him to wait.’
He gives another flourishing bow towards Lucrezia, but she still does not look up. After he has gone she sits frowning, picking anxiously at the weave of her dress, a gesture of the young girl she has not yet quite left behind.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. I – I just did not think that man would come to Rome with you now you are so elevated.’ She sighs. ‘He sends shivers through me. He feels… I don’t know… so cruel.’
‘Not as cruel as the man who made him look like that. Michelotto is my bodyguard now. He goes everywhere with me.’
‘Well, I would prefer it if he did not come to my wedding,’ she says impetuously. ‘I think such an angry face would not be a good omen for my future.’
‘In which case you shall not see him there.’ He pauses. ‘Little sister, you are not to worry about this marriage. If he does anything to displease you…’
‘Oh, Cesare.’ She shakes her head. ‘We are not children any more. You cannot fight them all.’
‘No? I would not be so sure.’
CHAPTER 9
For all Cesare’s sneering, Giovanni Sforza is not a bad-looking man. Tall enough, with a full head of hair, both of his eyes view the world from the same angle and his legs are straight and shapely. He has had the good luck to be born into a family riding high. Though he is illegitimate, bastards of men like the Sforzas are so common that they are seen more as a proof of virility than a lack of morality, and it has not stopped him from inheriting the vicarship of the papal state of Pesaro, with the muscle of his powerful older cousins, Ludovico and Ascanio, behind him.
The bad luck is that he does not share their rampant sense of ambition. At twenty-seven he has seen enough of life to know that he will never be one of its great players. When faced with any serious challenge, he has a tendency to register it in his gut, which can spasm so badly at times that it is all he can do not to curl up in unmanly agony. Raised on stories of war and cunning, he would like to deny this weakness, but rather like the power of second sight it is not something that one can argue with.
Still, marriage is usually a safe option for a man and he is no stranger to the demands of dynasties. His first wife had come from the confident city-state of Mantua, the sister of the current marquis, no less. While not a love match, they had got on well enough. It might have grown into something deeper, but within two years she was dead in the same bed as her stillborn baby, whose body she had begged to hold as they tried to staunch her bleeding.
The first Giovanni had known of this new alliance was when his cousin, Ludovico, had given him a fat post with an even fatter salary in the Milanese army. It wasn’t until the name of Borgia was attached that the stomach rumblings started. Mantua, at least, has been close to home and the Gonzaga family was of true Italian blood. But what could he do? It would have triggered infinitely worse pains to try and turn down a marriage brokered by a pope, and his own cousins, the Papal Vice-Chancellor and the Duke of Milan. He had been called to Rome for negotiations, and spent the best part of three weeks in a house waiting. The problem was that it seemed his bride was already betrothed to a Spanish nobleman, who had arrived at the same time and gone around rattling his sword, threatening to cut down any other man who staked a claim. On balance it seemed safer not to go out.
Then, suddenly, his rival was gone. The rumour was that it had taken three thousand ducats to buy him off. The amount augured well for the dowry this new wife would bring. His cousin, Cardinal Ascanio, took care of the bargaining, and sweet words and generous figures were everywhere. The betrothal had finally taken place in February, with his lawyer standing in for him. The man arrived back with tales of an unaffected, fresh young girl who would melt any heart,
and an aunt who could talk the hind legs off a donkey. Of her troublesome brothers there was no sign. The dowry agreed was a hefty thirty thousand ducats. He would have the ear of the Pope and, eventually, the body of his precious young daughter. It was the chance of a lifetime. He wandered around the palace, where the ghost of his first wife was fading rapidly. He imagined the echoing rooms newly filled with courtiers, music and laughter. The city would become a centre of influence and culture. They would throw banquets for ambassadors and cardinals, even the Pope himself. He would hunt and dance and sit at table with a loving and lovely wife, who would give him a clutch of sons who would grow greater than their father. He spent much of that day in the latrine. Though why, given the evident wonders ahead of him, he did not understand.
But this was no time for stomach cramps. News tumbled out from Rome detailing the most fabulous preparations. His wife’s wedding dress alone was rumoured to be costing fifteen hundred ducats (separate from her dowry, he was reassured when he asked).
Giovanni’s own wardrobe was a problem verging on a disaster. As bridegroom to one of the richest families, he could not afford to be outshone. Yet without the dowry, which would not come till after the consummation of the marriage, neither could he afford to shine. In the end he went begging. His ex-brother-in-law in Mantua was in possession of a great ceremonial necklace made by a master goldsmith and fit for the prince that he was about to become. A loan would cost nothing, and any favour could well come back tenfold, given the influence of his wife’s family.
The necklace, impressive and heavy as a yoke, arrived quickly. The wedding itself, however, did not. It had been arranged for April, and then postponed to May, then again till June. The palace rooms were not ready. The Pope was still placating other suitors who were pursuing her. But when he plucked up the courage to ask directly, the answer came fast and fulsome. No, absolutely not. She will be yours and yours alone.
In name, but not yet in body. Perhaps this explains why his happiness was not unbridled. Of course it is hard to lust for something one has not yet seen. More importantly, since everyone knows that a marriage is not really a marriage until husband and wife have got into the same bed together, the official delay in consummation has had its impact on his stomach. In short, this union which on paper seemed made in heaven feels compromised from the start.
Alexander meanwhile has better things to worry about than the digestive system of his prospective son-in-law. Lucrezia, beloved though she is, is only one of four children he must move across the chessboard. And then there are all the challenges of the daily running of Christendom. It is his greatest pleasure when he can address both at the same time. So when the Spanish ambassador, Don Diego de Haro, arrives in Rome in June, the visit cloaked in such obvious secrecy that the whole city is awash with rumour, it seems that God has answered his prayers.
From the splendour of the papal throne, Alexander beams down at the paunchy bustling figure, shiny with the sweat of velvet and nerves, as he unrolls his parchment maps and moves the weights so that the curling pages stay flat enough to give the Sovereign Pontiff a better view.
‘You see the island here, Your Holiness, yes, yes? We have called it Hispania. See – there is the name written across it. It is as everyone is saying – a new world! Wondrous enough in itself, but who can tell what lies beyond it?’ The ambassador’s voice, high by nature, gets higher when he is excited. And today he is very excited indeed. ‘So – some line of demarcation is essential, as I am sure you will agree.’
Alexander nods judiciously, his face impassive though even he cannot help but feel a certain quickening of the pulse. This ‘new world’ is so new that the maps hastily drawn up for the purpose do it little justice. There are two now lying side by side on the floor of the Vatican receiving-room. To the east, they show the curving coast of the continent of Europe and Africa and then, across a great expanse of sea marked out by a few ink waves and fishes and the scratch of a few sailing boats with the wind in their sails, a vertical chain of long islands. Down one of the maps a thin chalk line has been drawn through the middle of the water. The other, a copy, is left bare. When Christian nations fight for the ownership of a new land, where else do they come for guidance but to the Pope? He takes his time, savouring God’s manifest grace towards mankind by opening up such vistas, but also the aching anxiety of this one little man in front of him, whose life and career now depend on the deal that he can make for his masters.
‘Your Holiness, history itself will congratulate you on the decision you take here today,’ the ambassador says, as meekly as he can manage.
‘History perhaps, Don Diego. But not, I suspect, the Portuguese. It is not true that they have claims further west than this line?’
‘Ah – that is unclear at this stage, Your Holiness, and further details can be negotiated by treaty later. It is the principle that Their Majesties Ferdinand and Isabella beg you to consider now. Our cause is just. You have the words of our own admiral Columbus in front of you as proof.’
Alexander picks up the leaves of a letter in his lap. ‘I must say it is a marvellous dispatch. Marvellous,’ he grins. ‘Such wonders. The island of Hispania alone, he tells us, is larger than Spain itself. I hear he has written another, fuller account that is being passed around the courts of Europe,’ he says drily.
‘It is a new world, Your Holiness. Everyone has a great appetite to hear about it. But what he writes there is for your eyes alone.’
‘Haah. And my eyes would dearly love to see these wonders for themselves. So rich. So rich! These natives. Giving back gold for shoelaces. And their carefree nakedness. It is like the innocence of Eden. Marvels indeed. Hmm. His letter leads one to believe that they are as taken with this admiral as he is with them. They see him as coming from the heavens in fact. I do hope your Columbus is not tempted to set himself up as more than a man.’
‘Your Holiness! He represents a nation that has expelled the Jews and the Moors and roots out heresy in every corner of the land. The flame of Jesus Christ burns as white-hot in our hearts as it does in your very own. And he is convinced these multitudes are ripe for conversion. No sign of idolatry. Just good spirits. That is what he writes. If they see him as coming from heaven then the truth that he brings with him will take no time to root and bear seed.’
‘Indeed. So certainly we must consider the request carefully.’ Alexander turns to Burchard, who is sat with his own pen poised over parchment. ‘What would you say, Johannes? It should be a papal bull, yes?’
Burchard nods.
‘And the wording? Precise and clear, I think. A line of demarcation running… so many miles west of – what – the Cape Verde Islands?’
‘Yes. Three hundred miles is what Their Majesties of Spain are requesting,’ Burchard adds quietly.
‘Three hundred,’ the Pope repeats. He gazes at the map. Oh, the pleasure of such moments. He sighs. ‘Three hundred. That really does not leave a lot of room for others, Don Diego. Such a little line to create such a great empire.’
‘Which will bring glory to all of us,’ the ambassador squeaks. This business is of such importance to Spain that he has arrived in the city incognito. And, like Columbus himself, he comes carrying gifts, though of somewhat more value than shoelaces.
There is a short silence. Alexander appears to be lost in thought.
‘Your Holiness, I… I must tell you how eagerly both my majesties await the arrival of your son, Juan, Duke of Gandia. His offered bride, Maria Enriques, besides being the cousin of the King, is a fine and noble woman, whose hand has been sought all over Europe. Theirs will be a union—’
‘Forgive me, sir!’ The Pope looks up, indignant. ‘We are not bartering our son in return for a line in the ocean. He is more worthy and more precious to us than a tribe of pagan souls.’
‘Of course!’ the ambassador laughs nervously. ‘As is the princess to Their Majesties. No, we are speaking of royal blood. Of the powerful ties that will grow between Spain and the papa
cy. The advancement of the Church. Of family.’ He pauses. Is this enough? Apparently not. ‘And the princess’s dowry I… I think you’ll agree is at least as rich as the lady who accompanies it. Not to mention the lands that will pass into your son’s hands.’ Surely he cannot want more? The ambassador glances at Burchard, who drops his eyes, his fingers offering the merest flutter of a sign.
So subtle. Not subtle enough that Alexander misses it. Wily old fox, the Pope thinks sharply. Burchard has been talking to him behind my back. But the realisation is not without admiration.
‘Yes, indeed. Church and family, Don Diego. We are united in those two great loves. Very well, the finer points can be discussed later. Three hundred miles then. Burchard, I leave it to you. We had better make the mark on the map in ink. And let us include in the bull some words from the letter of the admiral Columbus to us. To show his care of and loyalty to our holy office.’
The Pope nods at the ambassador to dismiss him.
‘Your Holiness.’ He swallows. ‘There is one more thing.’
The Pope stares at him.
‘My majesties have heard… well, it is said… I mean…’
Alexander waits. After a lifetime practising diplomacy and the culture of blandishments, it gives him an almost childish glee to watch others struggling. ‘I would spit it out if I were you, Don Diego. We wouldn’t want Spain discovering another new empire before you got to the point.’
‘I am referring to France. The rumour that, with the support of Milan, the new French king has put forward claims on the throne of Naples. This is something—’
‘—that would upset Their Spanish Majesties no end.’
‘Yes indeed. The balance of power—’
‘—is delicate. Ambassador, you do not need to tell me my job. I have been balancing power for most of my life. You will tell Your Majesties that while the Pope has entered into friendship and marriage union with Milan, partly in response to most aggressive behaviour from their compatriot in Naples—’