Blood & Beauty: A Novel of the Borgias

by Sarah Dunant

  Giulia smiles. ‘You have developed some of your family’s wit while you have been away.’

  ‘Actually, I meant it seriously.’

  ‘In which case tell her that she is in good company, but that she must learn to be more discreet when she strays.’

  But Sancia is not in a mood to be told anything. ‘I am a fine wife to Jofré and love him dearly. As to the Cardinal of Valencia, I have no interest in him. I am a princess of royal blood used to having courtiers around me, not men with the manners of a street cat.’

  It is a description some might use of her too. ‘It is just his way, Sancia. He doesn’t mean to be cruel.’

  ‘On the contrary, I think he enjoys it. But it is nothing to me. It was a dalliance, no more than that. And I was tiring of it anyway.’

  The silence draws out between them. Lucrezia is uncomfortable and is preparing to leave when a deep sob rips out from Sancia’s throat. She waves her hand frantically in front of her face as if to push it aside.

  ‘I am not crying about your brother,’ she says angrily. ‘No. He is not worth it. It’s just… I – I have had some bad news from Naples.’

  ‘What? What?’

  ‘… er… Alfonso has been hurt in a riding accident.’

  ‘Your brother! What happened?’

  ‘Oh… his horse tripped and he fell. He turned his foot. It will be all right. I am just worried about him.’

  Lucrezia, who is no stranger to the struggle between saying one thing and feeling another, comes up and puts her arms around her. ‘Oh Sancia, it’s all right to be upset by it all. I think you might be homesick.’ The young beauty’s mouth puckers and trembles like a little girl’s. ‘Maybe your brother can come and visit us in Rome. I am sure when the time is right Papà would be only too happy to offer an invitation.’

  ‘Yes,’ she nods. ‘Yes. Then you will see a man whose heart is as fine as his leg. A real courtier.’ She is almost recovered. ‘Oh, and is it true that the Duke of Gandia is coming back from Spain?’

  CHAPTER 23

  He had been summoned once before: when Rome had been facing the French the Pope had sent out a plea for his favourite son to return home, as if his very presence might somehow persuade the enemy to turn back. But the Duke of Gandia’s life had not been at the beck and call of his father any more. With a royal wife, a place at court and a piece of Spain to finance his lifestyle, he was a Spanish grandee, held in orbit around the energetic monarchy of Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon. It was a sweet enough slavery for him, and Spain’s need for a friendly Borgia hostage to secure the Pope’s continued loyalty to the House of Aragon in Naples had resulted in all manner of excuses to keep him.

  But with Naples now recaptured from the French, Their Majesties can make no objection to his recall. The invitation is irresistible: Juan is called home to lead an army of retribution against his father’s enemies. Alexander is finally ready to settle some scores. The Sforzas and the Colonna concern him less – they have been smart enough to prostrate themselves before the victor and can wait. The Orsini, however, with their leader Virginio buried in a Neapolitan jail, remain in the pay of the French and still in control of strategic castles around Rome. It had been the surrender of those very castles that had welcomed in the army in the first place.

  The first salvo comes in the form of a papal bull of excommunication against the whole family as punishment for disobedience and treachery to the Holy See. Having scuppered them in the next life, Alexander now sets out to disenfranchise them in this one. To do so, he needs the services of a captain-general of the Church, a man of impeccable loyalty who, when the Orsini lands are confiscated, can annex them into the Borgias’ own estates. The only person better qualified for the job is the one who cannot have it. Though that does not stop him from speaking his mind.

  ‘Juan has no experience, Father. Not of diplomacy nor military planning, nor anything connected with the art of war. You read his letters. He barely knows one end of a cannon from the other and the only men he has ever commanded are the servants who move his furniture or the tailors he shouts at when they don’t sew enough jewels on to his sleeves.’

  ‘He is not a professional soldier, that is true. Which is why we will approach the Duke of Urbino to share command. His name carries weight and our league of allies would support him.’

  Cesare shrugs. ‘So then you will have a one-eyed man leading the blind. Urbino is a second-generation condottiere. He runs on his father’s reputation. He has not fought a single pitched battle on his own. Nor campaigned for more than a season.’

  ‘What are you saying, Cesare? That you have done all of those things?’

  ‘No. But I have lived every minute of this war. I have sat with you over maps of Italy and talked strategy and the movement of men and weapons. I have negotiated surrenders and played off one side against another. I would be a better commander than Juan.’

  ‘Even if that is true, you are a cardinal of the Church of Rome. You cannot also be its captain-general. Those who oppose us are vigilant for the ways we misuse papal power.’

  ‘We do nothing that the della Rovere haven’t done before us. Pope Sixtus sent a priest to assassinate the Medici brothers during high mass!’

  ‘Indeed he did!’ cried Alexander, moving between pleasure and exasperation at this sustained attack. ‘But he did not do it himself. You are my son and a cardinal and you cannot be seen to be slaughtering men in the field.’

  ‘No. But I could sit in camp and make sure they measured the distance between the guns and the walls they were bombarding correctly.’

  ‘Enough of your sarcasm, Cesare. You are not hearing what I am saying.’

  Cesare bows his head. ‘I am sorry. But – with respect, Father – neither are you hearing me. I know about war. I’ve questioned the artillery commanders who took the fortresses of the south. I’ve also studied these Orsini castles and I know what is needed for this campaign to work. The smaller ones to the east and north-west of Lake Bracciano will drop into our hands. They have little loyalty to the Orsini and the smell of cannon fire will scare them. Their defence is antiquated.’ He pauses to make sure he is being heard now. ‘It is the two that are built on the lake itself that will cause the trouble, because they can move troops and supplies by boat between them. The fortress of Bracciano most of all. It has been refortified and is in the hands of Virginio’s sister. She is as much a fighter as her brother and she will see it as a chance to defy us and bargain for his release.’

  ‘Ah, you run almost as good an intelligence network as my own. It is a wonder either of us ever finds time to pray,’ Alexander says drily, though of course he cannot help being impressed. ‘You are right, son. You have studied it all well. And Juan will know all this before he sets out. As for Virginio Orsini, the matter will be settled another way.’

  ‘How?’

  The Pope waves his hand impatiently. ‘You will know soon enough.’ Since the defeat of the French there are moments in discussion with his son when he wonders who is ruling whom. ‘You are my confidant in almost everything that we do, Cesare. Some things are better unspoken. What I am telling you now is simply what can and cannot be done.’

  There is a silence. Cesare sits very still, his eyes fixed on the table in front of him. ‘In which case release me from the Church,’ he says at last, his voice quiet.

  ‘No. I will most certainly not. And we will not have this conversation again.’

  He looks up at him. ‘I tell you, Father, you will regret it if you don’t.’

  ‘And you will regret it if you dare to threaten me.’ Alexander in rising anger brings up a closed fist to slam it on the table, but seems to change his mind, opening his fingers and bringing his hand down heavily so that it lies, palm down, pressing hard into the wood. ‘God’s wounds, Cesare. I am the head of this family, and until I am not, you will do what I say. No dynasty of any worth in Italy has ever succeeded without having either a state under its control, or a pope t
o conquer one.’

  He takes a breath to mediate his fury. ‘Look at what we have achieved since my ascension. Look at the wealth you hold, the benefices and the titles. Look at our land and honours brought through the web of marriages. We are linked to the Spanish throne, we have half of Naples in our pocket and we didn’t have to fire a shot to get either of them. Once we have cut loose Pesaro and found another husband for Lucrezia we will be a force that even the Orsini cannot push around. And mark my words, at some point France will need something that only a pope can deliver, and then she too will bend her knee to us. We have achieved in five years that which would have taken fifty without the papacy. I know the Church was not your choice. But at twenty-one you are already in a place where no man would dare touch you.’

  ‘The only reason they don’t touch me is because of you. If you were to die…’

  ‘Ha! Do I look like I am dying?’ he yells. Ah, how he hates to be reminded of his mortality. ‘I will see you strong enough to command enough votes to win the papal crown first.’

  ‘Oh, Father. They hate us. Even the ones who vote for us talk about us behind our backs. Della Rovere would see me dead first.’

  ‘Della Rovere may be dead himself if we last long enough. I know how capable you are, Cesare. But this is how it must be. Juan will become the Captain-General of the Church and, if he agrees, Urbino will take the field with him.’

  ‘And if they lose?’

  ‘They will not lose. The Orsini will be humbled, that I promise you. And now we will move on. Yes? Yes. Right. That young messenger that you stole from me years ago, what was his name?

  ‘Pedro Calderón.’

  ‘Calderón. Good. We have a job for him.’

  ‘GAN-D-I-A! GAN-D-I-A!’

  Thanks to Borgia handouts, the dirty little port town of Civitavecchia raises a crowd to welcome the Pope’s son back on to Italian soil. It is the same place from where he embarked three years ago: a callow youth dispatched to sire a Borgia dynasty and gain a little gravitas along the way. The dynasty has come easily: one male heir and another already cooking in the womb. The gravitas is more of a challenge. But in the excitement of his return all the stories of vanity and bad behaviour are forgotten. In the days it has taken for the ship to cross from Valencia to the Italian coast, Alexander has worked himself into a lather of anticipation, the court responding around him. ‘When the Duke of Gandia arrives home’ becomes a byword for describing the pleasures of the future.

  Cesare, who masks his disappointment well enough, is charming and polite to all. As if to make up for the damage caused, he has recently tucked young Jofré under his wing, taking him hunting and teaching him horse skills and moves inside the bullring. In public, meanwhile, he treats Sancia with exaggerated courtesy. She laughs and twirls her skirts and is so obviously gay that it is clear to anyone with an ounce of empathy that she is not.

  Juan reaches Rome on August 10 and is met at the northern gate by Cesare and a band of cardinals and courtiers. The day before, the diplomats lay wagers on the weight of jewels he will be wearing. The new ambassador from Mantua, whose mistress, the great patron Isabella d’Este, demands her politics spiced with fashion, is the winner; but he factors in the horse, which has so many silver bells attached that the duke tinkles like a crowd of lepers with every step he takes.

  That night, under a ceiling decorated with bulls, the ladies go mad for him. Three years’ absence has turned a gangling boy into a strong young man, his skin aglow with Spanish sun and his pockets deep with exotic tales. He makes a great fuss of his younger brother, picking him up and twirling him round in front of the assembled gathering, as Jofré, who can now pass his cloak at a bull, yelps furiously to be let down. Depositing him at the feet of his wife, Juan delivers her a sweeping bow. The audience applauds. She beams and offers him her hand, which he munches on for a while. Spain’s loss is the Duchess of Squillace’s gain. Over his head, she glances towards Cesare, who watches impassively for a moment, then winks at her.

  Ah, the wonder of a family reunited. The Pope’s smile pushes his cheeks so far up into his eyes that he sees nothing of the unfolding pantomime.

  ‘I am a Borgia too. I don’t see why I’m not included.’

  ‘Because we talk Church business, that’s why.’

  ‘So why is Juan there?’

  ‘Because he has been in Spain and knows Their Spanish Majesties’ minds. No, no, I told you: the weight on your heels, so that you are already turning before the cape moves over your arm. Otherwise you’ll have a horn in your gonads.’

  ‘I am on my heels,’ he barks indignantly. ‘And what’s the Spanish King and Queen’s mind got to do with Church business anyway?’

  ‘Little brother. I am telling you, you cannot be there.’

  Jofré turns, whipping the cape up and behind him, once, twice, then coming to a stop, throwing his head back and pushing his chest out as he has watched others do. Across the dusty courtyard, a young bull with horns the size of small fists pushing out of his head stands tethered, decidedly uninterested in the spectacle being played out in front of his eyes. ‘It is not fair. I am not little brother any more,’ he says, holding the pose to make his point. ‘I am Duke of Squillace with an income of forty thousand ducats a year and a post in the Neapolitan army. You know, if Sancia’s half-brother was to die, I might become King of Naples.’

  Cesare laughs. ‘Not while her Uncle Federico or her brother Alfonso is still alive.’

  ‘Well, they could both die too.’ He swears loudly. It is a habit he has taken to since his return to court, to make him seem older. ‘Come on, Cesare, everyone knows that we are going to war. If we’re going to hammer the Orsini you need me. Now I can fight bulls, I can fight cockroaches too.’ He prances over to the bull and snaps the cape to and fro in front of it. The animal lets out a low bellow of protest at the unfairness of the provocation. Despite the pain of cuckoldry Jofré has proved eager to be placated; an older brother who can slide along the flanks of a raging bull or leap from one galloping horse to another while barely dirtying his costume is a man to be emulated rather than resented.

  ‘What else do you know about what we are going to do?’ Cesare asks casually.

  ‘I know that Juan will lead the troops, with the Duke of Urbino as joint commander, and they will have a cardinal from Milan as legate. I am right, yes? In which case I don’t see—’

  ‘Who told you about Urbino and the cardinal? Who?’ His voice is sharp now. The Duke of Gandia is barely six weeks in residence and the court is awash with rumours, most of them so accurate that there is only one person who can be starting them.

  Jofré shakes his head, suddenly stubborn.

  ‘Who, Jofré? I need to know.’

  His mouth falls into a familiar scowl. ‘Sancia,’ he growls.

  ‘Sancia?’

  ‘Yeah… He tells her everything.’

  Pillow talk. Another open secret. From one brother’s bed to another. No wonder Jofré is outraged at his exclusion. Sancia and Juan. It had been like watching ripe fruit fall. She made sure Cesare had a ringside seat, because of course it is her way of getting back at him, as they both know. He is wondering about coaxing her back into his bed, imagining the pleasure of putting Juan’s nose out of joint. It would not be so hard a task. Naples and Rome, both cities of alley cats. But he is growing almost fond of his younger brother these days, and would not like to cause him more suffering than is necessary.

  ‘But I knew it all anyway, before she told me,’ Jofré says defiantly. Since he has learned how to tease tethered animals he has found a new confidence. ‘Everybody does.’

  ‘Then everyone – like you – should watch their tongue. Or someone might cut it out.’ Cesare makes a grab for him, slipping the cloak expertly out of his hand, and tackles him playfully to the ground, where he tries to pluck at his mouth as the boy yells.

  ‘Get off! Get off me!’ Jofré shakes himself madly to avoid the grab and soon they are both yelping and laug
hing. Two brothers wrestling in the dust. It is not often either of them is so carefree. ‘All right. All right. I am only telling you because you ought to know. Ha! If you won’t let me in, you should at least pay me to be your informant. You tell me I’ve got a fast hand and a quick eye.’

  ‘And so you have, little brother.’

  Cesare releases his grip and helps him to his feet.

  ‘But remember. You have to know when to step out of the way, before you sink the dagger into the bull’s neck.’

  CHAPTER 24

  In the dingy light inside the old basilica of St Peter, Juan Borgia, newly ordained as Gonfaloniere and Captain-General of the Church, kneels alongside the Duke of Urbino to receive the papal staff and banners of war. After mass, free wine and food help gather a crowd to see them on their way. It has taken time for Rome to get back its sense of pride after the humiliation of occupation, and there are those who think a war between families can bring only bloodshed rather than honour. Others relish the chance to settle old scores. In the Piazza del Popolo a group of Orsini followers start heckling as the troops pass and within minutes a fight breaks out inside the crowd. Swords are pulled and the howls of fury and agony penetrate over the drumrolls into the ranks of soldiers: sweet music to accompany men into battle.

  The weather is unseasonably warm for late autumn, and for a while the sun shines on everything. Bunched like a cluster of grapes around Lake Bracciano, the fortresses to the south and north-west fall as easily as Cesare has predicted. By Christmas, Alexander is celebrating the birth of the Christ child along with the transferred ownership of nine castles. The Vatican is full of joy. All that remains is Trevignano and Bracciano, its recently fortified turrets and crenellated walkways reflected into the mirror surface of the lake.

  In his private chambers Alexander calls for Cesare’s messenger. It is a good choice. Locked in Rome as part of Cesare’s bodyguard, Pedro Calderón has spent a frustrating war. There had been his dash to Spoleto, and a few back-street brawls with French soldiers during the occupation, but the only real offensive had come with the attack on the Swiss Guard, and the odds had been so far on the Borgia side that he had left the square with a sense of a slaughter rather than an honourable fight. What he wants more than anything else is a mission.