But I could not remember anything more recent. I had seen the Spanish ambassador around the Vatican of late, but he was one of many. And I was not present at all of the Holy Father’s audiences, much as I may have wanted to be.
He continued. “I am most pleased to announce another marriage for our family, one that will do our name much honor. Their Catholic Majesties have invited our son Juan to the court of Spain, where he shall marry one Maria Enriquez, a cousin of King Ferdinand himself.”
There were delighted, surprised gasps from the ladies. Juan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest and with a look of smug self-satisfaction on his face.
Anger swept over me. He had already known. Certainly our father would share with Juan news that directly affected him, but still. Why had I, once again, not been brought into his confidence? Why had I not shared in the negotiations with the Spanish royals?
“This is a great honor for the family of Borgia, that we may be respected both in Italy and in our native Spain and beyond, as is our due,” the pope went on. “I trust Juan will behave admirably and in keeping with what his family expects of him, and do us proud.”
He shot a warning glance in Juan’s direction. It gave me some petty glee to observe. Juan did not seem to notice, however; he merely took another long swig of his wine, basking in the admiration of those at the table.
Though not that of Giovanni Sforza. The only emotion on Sforza’s face seemed to be one of relief. Interesting indeed, but I had more pressing things to consider.
“And what have Their Catholic Majesties asked of us in return, for so honoring our brother Juan?” I asked, looking at our father.
“Only that which is most certainly in our power to give,” he replied, reaching for his wine. “Spain and Portugal are in dispute over sovereignty of these new lands to the west, the ones that Genoan—what is his name, Colombo?—has found. I am happy to decide the matter in Spain’s favor, seeing as Ferdinand and Isabella financed his expedition, after all. They also wish for our support regarding their claims to the throne of Naples; that the house of Aragon, as King Ferdinand’s own relations, should be allowed to continue to rule there.”
This at last got Giovanni Sforza’s attention. He went rigid in his seat, his face pale. As well it might: it was his worthless cousin Ludovico who kept threatening to invite the French into Italy to enforce their ancestral claim to Naples. This marriage of Juan’s could put him in a very difficult spot.
I glanced at my sister, who was certainly astute enough to grasp the politics of the situation as well as, if not better than, her husband. Yet she wore only a smile. “Blessings on you, brother, and on your upcoming marriage,” she said to Juan. “Though I shall miss having you in Rome.”
He turned to her, a softer smile graving his face. “And I shall miss you, dear sister,” he said.
“Do promise me you will write often,” she said taking his hand.
“Of course,” he said. “I have ever been a poor correspondent, but I shall seek to rectify that habit for my only sister.”
I scowled, even as I knew both spoke in earnest. For all Juan’s faults—and God knew they were countless—he had only ever been kind and loving toward Lucrezia.
“Yes, we shall expect you to become a better correspondent indeed, figlio,” Father said, directing a stern look at Juan. “We expect to be kept apprised of your doings and of the news from the Spanish court.”
Juan would make a poor spy indeed, if Father sought information on political matters. Juan would pay scarce attention to anything but his own pleasure, whether he be in Rome or Spain.
If I were the soldier, the one who was free to marry, it would have been me on my way to a royal Spanish bride. And my eyes and ears would be open the entire time. Yet another task I was far more suited to than Juan.
“In this and in all things, I shall obey you as a loving and dutiful son,” Juan said, smirk firmly back in place. He turned to direct it at me. My fist clenched around the stem of my goblet, but I said nothing.
“We know you shall. And so, a toast.” Father rose, lifting his goblet high. “To our beloved son Juan, Duke of Gandia. We must put aside our sorrow at his departure as he leaves to make great the name of Borgia, and so elevate us all.”
We rose and lifted our glasses. “To Juan,” everyone said. No one noticed my half-hearted mumbling of the words.
* * *
After the meal was over, Juan left, citing an appointment with Prince Djem. Juan had become close with the brother of the Turkish sultan, kept in the Vatican as a hostage for the sultan’s good behavior—and to ensure Djem could not usurp his brother’s throne. Djem and Juan had become notorious for combing the streets of Rome at night, drinking and gambling and visiting whores. Juan even at times adopted a Turkish costume in the same style as Djem’s, and the pair made quite a sight. And when his antics made it back to our father—a fight in a tavern, broken windows, a dispute over a bill—the pope only scolded him fondly and sent him on his way. One might think Juan would have a care for his new station, but I did not hold out any true hope.
I offered to escort Lucrezia back to Santa Maria in Portico—and if I wished for a glimpse of the pretty Maddalena, that was my own business. But Lucrezia waved me away with a smile. “I have my husband to escort me back, brother,” she said, practically hanging on Sforza’s arm. He stood stiffly all the while, and it made my blood boil to see him so unworthy of her, and to see her want to please him anyway.
“Of course. Take good care of her, brother-in-law,” I said, knowing he would hear the warning.
I called Michelotto over as the pair departed. “Follow them back, just to ensure Lucrezia is safe,” I murmured. “And make sure Sforza catches a glimpse of you, that he might remember his promise.”
Michelotto nodded. “Very good, my lord. And you?”
“I would speak with His Holiness. Return here after your errand and perhaps we shall have some entertainment this night as well.” Juan wasn’t the only one who enjoyed a drink and a woman. At least I managed to be discreet. There was a new courtesan in one of the finer houses in the city, a Florentine woman called Fiammetta with flame-red hair. She seemed to enjoy my company, and there was a dark-haired Spanish woman in the same house whom Michelotto delighted in visiting.
He grinned, understanding my meaning perfectly. “I’d like that very much, my lord.”
He took his leave, and I returned to the dining room, where my father still lounged at the head of the table. Giulia sat on his lap as they whispered to one another, and his hand lazily reached into her bodice to toy with her breasts.
“Your Holiness,” I said, clearing my throat. “I would have a word, before you retire.”
He sighed heavily, but got to his feet even so, Giulia sliding from his lap. “I thought you might,” he said. He turned to Giulia. “Go on, mio tesoro, and wait in the bedchamber. I shall be along shortly.”
She left the room, a coy smile playing about her lips.
“Come, let’s go to the private audience chamber,” he said, leading me out of the dining room.
I followed him upstairs to his private suite of rooms. We would not meet in his sitting room tonight, not with Giulia waiting next door. Though the pope used his rooms, evidence of the work still being done on them was all over, notably the frescos he had commissioned from the painter Pinturicchio. Drapes, knives, and paintbrushes were collected at the edges of the room, along with wooden scaffolding, waiting for the painter and his assistants to return in the morning.
The richer furniture had been removed for the time being, so my father settled himself onto one of the stone benches cut into the window alcove and motioned for me to take the one across from him. “Let us hear it,” he said wearily.
His tone should have made me more cautious—he already knew what I wanted to say and was not looking forward to it—but it only served to make me more irate. “I simply wish to know more as to your strategy here,” I said.
&nbs
p; “My strategy regarding what, precisely? Speak plainly, Cesare.”
“Regarding the political situation in Europe,” I said tersely. “You marry Lucrezia to a Sforza when they are all but allied with France over dominion of Naples, and next send Juan to the Spanish court in a sign that you favor the Aragonese claim. How long do you think you can play both sides?”
“I do not know that I am,” he said. “Lucrezia’s marriage was a sop to the Sforzas, as you well know. Giovanni Sforza will command his armies as we instruct him to when it comes down to it. None of the Sforzas are in any position to defy the pope, least of all the man who is the pope’s son-in-law. Juan’s marriage will bring us closer to the court of Spain, which is our natural alliance as a family. No one in Europe would expect anything different.”
“I think Ludovico Sforza and his brother Ascanio expect something different.”
“Ascanio’s first loyalty is to me, and he knows his job is to keep his brother in line,” Father snapped. “I have repaid that debt, and they know it well and shall not forget it.”
“So Spain and Naples are meant to take heart at Juan’s marriage, yet France and Milan are not supposed to read it as opposition?”
“I shall marry my children off as best suits our political needs, as princes all over Europe do, and as both the French king and Ludovico Sforza will surely understand,” he bit out. “The political situation is delicate, yes, but we must go about our business here.”
“I understand that,” I said through gritted teeth. “But Sforza went rigid as a beam tonight when you announced Juan’s marriage. You can see what a position this puts him in, and by extension Lucrezia.”
“Lucrezia is a Borgia first and foremost. We protect our own.”
This was the most encouraging thing I’d heard all night. “Agreed. And yet I cannot see how sending Juan to Spain will not aggravate the French—”
“I have been dealing in international politics since before you were born, Cesare. I would pray you remember that,” the pope said, his voice low and dangerous. “You would be a fool to think I have not thought through all the implications of what I do, including those of which you cannot possibly have any knowledge.”
I was silent, for he was right. “Granted,” I said at last. “And yet you have consigned me to the Church because you claim you need my sharp mind and insight to advise you. Why then do you disregard my counsel when I speak?”
He sighed. “I do not disregard it. I do rely on you and shall continue to do so. But believe me, I know what is best.”
It seemed there was nothing left to say.
The pope rose from his seat. “I am for my bed, then, and bid you goodnight, my son.”
“Yes,” I said, rising. “Goodnight, Father.”
I left him to his bed—and the woman in it—and made my way to the front entrance hall of the palace where Michelotto waited. “All is well with Lucrezia?” I asked as I approached.
“Indeed. She did not know I was there, though her husband did.”
“Perfect.” We stepped out into the evening air, walking toward our preferred brothel without needing to discuss it. “Let us enjoy ourselves tonight, Michelotto. Lord knows I could use some amusement.”
* * *
On August 6, Juan departed for Spain with great fanfare. His baggage train consisted of hundreds of carts, with hundreds of servants to accompany him. He was dressed in hose made of cloth of gold, and a red doublet trimmed with the same. The bridle and saddle of his horse were encrusted with jewels, as were the hilts of the dagger and sword he carried at his waist. The nobles of Spain would be either impressed by the display, or simply blinded.
Juan and his party took leave of the Holy Father on the steps of the Vatican. As he knelt for our father’s blessing, those watching could plainly see the pope had tears in his eyes as he placed his hands on the head of his favorite son. “May God watch over you and help you to do His work in the kingdom of Their Most Catholic Majesties,” the pope intoned, “and may those worthy monarchs welcome and treat you like their own son. We send to them our greatest gift and treasure this day.” He closed his eyes, and a tear rolled down his cheek. “God ride with you, Your Grace, and may our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ protect you from all evil.”
With that, Juan rose, and the assembled company—the rest of our family, prominent Roman nobles, and the cardinals and bishops who were in the Holy City—crossed themselves before applauding. Juan waved to the crowd and jauntily swung himself up into his saddle, looking—I ground my teeth as I thought it—like a very knight errant out of some old chivalrous tale. Lucrezia wiped away tears of her own, and a dejected look fell across Prince Djem’s face—upset at losing his carousing partner, no doubt. Juan spurred his horse and rode for the exit of the piazza, his companions, grooms, servants, and luggage carts falling into place behind him.
It took over an hour for Juan’s entire entourage to filter out onto the road, but the Holy Father waited until the last mule and cart had left the square, and so too was the gathered crowd required to wait. It was a brutally hot day, and I was sweating profusely beneath my silk archbishop’s robes. One elderly cardinal fainted dead away from the heat. Yet none of us could leave until finally the Holy Father turned to go inside, signaling that everyone else could disperse.
I stepped gratefully into the cool stone halls of the Vatican, glad the day’s ceremonies were over, and gladder still that Juan was gone. Perhaps without Juan blocking his view of me, Father would be able to see me for the man I truly was and realize the full potential he had thus far not allowed me to reach. This was my chance to convince him the Church was not where I could be most useful to him.
Maybe we could let Juan rot in Spain, and I could fulfill our family’s military ambitions in Italy. God knew I could do it, for had He not given me the intellect, the strength, the courage?
* * *
“I am looking into arranging a marriage for Jofre, and I would know your thoughts,” Father said to me several nights later, having summoned me to his private apartments.
I took a sip of chilled vino blanco a servant had poured for me, buying myself a moment to consider this. Jofre was only twelve years old. Old enough to be betrothed, certainly. A marriage for a young man at that age was not unheard of, but was rather unusual. Still, Rodrigo Borgia was an unusual man with more than the usual ambition. “Indeed?” I said. “And to what corner of Europe do we look for Jofre’s future bride?”
“Where else but to Naples?” he said pleasantly.
I was struck speechless. I had not considered a move this bold.
“Think of it, Cesare,” he said, sensing my surprise. “Such a match will signal to Europe our support for Naples and the Aragonese line. It will also assure Ferdinand and Isabella of our continued goodwill.”
“While thumbing our noses at Ludovico Sforza in Milan,” I added.
“While sending a message to the Sforzas of Milan,” Father corrected. “I have no further patience for Ludovico Sforza threatening to bring the French down on our heads, and I want him to know it.”
“What does Ascanio say of such a match?”
“I have not told him that I am considering it,” Father replied. “But he will do as I say and not challenge me—not too much, anyway. He holds the post of Vice-Chancellor of the Curia at my pleasure, and he would do well to remember that. He has already made himself quite rich off the post, and he will not do anything to jeopardize the source of his wealth.”
“Indeed. His brother thinks nothing of how his actions might damage the rest of Italy; only of his own gain.”
Father snorted. “No different than any of the other Italian princelings. And why should it be? None of them have each other’s interests at heart. They are all separate nations.”
“But imagine a united Italy,” I pressed. “At least, a more united Italy. If the Papal States, Florence, Milan, Naples, and Venice all stood together, who would come against us?”
“You dream a lofty d
ream, my son,” Father said, sipping his wine. “I will settle for bringing the Papal States firmly under the control of Rome once more.”
I said nothing further on the subject, but the vision my words had conjured lingered behind my eyes. If the Italian peninsula were united, we would be a match for the great powers of Europe. No more would they seek to divide us, conquer us, use us as bargaining chips for their own power or pleasure.
If I had the right army, I could do it. Through military force and political negotiations and cunning, I could bring together the biggest powers of the peninsula. I could be another Giulio Cesare and become worthy of my name.
I was so lost in this most potent of daydreams that I barely noticed my father had started to speak again. “Do you not want to know who I am considering for your brother’s bride?”
I blinked, pulling myself back into the present and the matter at hand. I had, I realized, lost my chance to share my vision with him. There will be other chances, I consoled myself. “Who is the fortunate lady?” I asked.
“One Sancia of Aragon, natural daughter of Alfonso, the crown prince,” Father said.
A bastard, then, just as Jofre was. As we all were. Still, such a marriage for a younger son was not without its advantages. She was, after all, the granddaughter of King Ferrante, the current ruler. “I recognize the name, but cannot call to mind much of anything about the lady,” I admitted. “What do we know of her?”
“Her mother is Alfonso’s favorite mistress, and much in favor at court,” Father said. “Sancia has an elder brother, also Alfonso, in addition to her half siblings by her father’s wife. Sancia is apparently much beloved of King Ferrante—as much as that man can love anyone, I expect. He offered her for Juan, which was not possible, but I am thinking we might still be able to accept his proposal for Jofre. Old Ferrante and his son will no doubt be overjoyed to have any tie to the Vatican in these uncertain times.”
The Borgia Confessions Page 9