My father’s eyes rested on me, and I basked in the approval I saw there. “We concur. Cardinal Borgia proves most sound in his judgments.”
“When shall we deploy?” Virginio asked.
“As soon as possible,” I said, before my father could speak. “Charles announced his intention to invade four months ago. He could be crossing the Alps as we speak. We don’t have any time to waste.”
King Alfonso snorted. “We would know if he were that close,” he said. “We will need more time to prepare.”
“It is a large force we are mustering,” Virginio said, looking to the pope. “We shall need time, as His Highness says, and I believe we have more than His Eminence suggests.”
My father considered this carefully. “We are inclined to agree,” he said at last. “But it is also true there is little time to spare. Let us be ready as soon as is possible.”
The pope rose, and everyone else followed. “We have done all we can here, my lords,” he continued. “Tomorrow let us return to our respective homes and begin our work.”
The pope left the room, and I trailed after him, with King Alfonso not far behind. Virginio lingered in the large room, and I wondered if he was as low on optimism as I.
* * *
As the sun was setting later that evening, I found my father up on the ramparts of the Orsini stronghold in which we had gathered to meet. Forgoing the formality of a greeting, I asked, “And what is your assessment of what has been accomplished here today? Do you think we shall hold off the French invasion?”
“We shall prevail,” Pope Alexander said without hesitation. “God is on our side, for our cause is righteous. Alfonso is Ferrante’s son and heir—God rest his soul—and should by rights sit the throne of Naples. Our Lord sees this and shall give us victory.”
“And what is the size of Our Lord’s army?” I inquired. “If He would be so good as to let us know, we could refine our strategy, and sleep easier in the coming nights.”
My father clucked his disapproval. “Blasphemy, Cesare.”
I bit down on my tongue to keep from replying. Who could guess at what a pope who kept a mistress and made his son a cardinal might actually find blasphemous?
“The Lord will give us victory,” he said again. “And our strategy is a good one, thanks in part to you,” he went on. “Prince Ferrantino is a fine commander, and there is none better than Virginio Orsini. We’ve Florence on our side and shall send for Giovanni Sforza and his force from Pesaro as well. He shall meet Ferrantino’s force in the northern Romagna and add to their numbers.”
“Florence shall be of no help to us militarily,” I said bluntly. “You know that.”
“They can refuse Charles passage through their lands, should he take the route through Tuscany.”
“And how will they stop him? When Charles does not turn around and take his army back to France after being asked politely, what shall that fool Piero de’ Medici do?”
Father sighed. “I accept that Florence will likely not be able to halt them, but they are on our side politically at least, which is more than we can say for the rest of Italy.” He closed his eyes briefly. “Would that Lorenzo de’ Medici were still alive. I should dearly like to have his aid in this.”
I nodded my agreement. The late Lorenzo, whom many called Il Magnifico, had been an unparalleled statesman. Had he been alive to help us, no doubt this situation would not seem quite so dire. Florence had long been friendly with France, but I doubted Lorenzo de’ Medici would have desired for them to be meddling too closely in the affairs of Italy. His successor, his eldest son Piero, was by all accounts mismanaging the business of Florence, from his family’s bank to the government. One of Lorenzo’s younger sons was a cardinal now, and while he showed similar political savvy to his father, he was still young and untried, and too unknown in Florence—having been given to the Church at a young age—to make him a plausible rallying point for the people there.
In the years following Lorenzo’s death, a preacher had risen to prominence in Florence, a Dominican friar by the name of Girolamo Savonarola. He railed against the excesses of the Medici family and, lately, of Holy Mother Church itself. Father had been keeping a close eye on the situation, and we’d received word that Savonarola’s sermons throughout Lent this past year had been largely concerned with a scourge that was coming to Italy to sweep away all the corruption and make the peninsula pleasing to God once more. Some of his militaristic language strongly suggested he considered King Charles VIII of France to be this very scourge.
“That said, I might trade a living Lorenzo de’ Medici for a Venice willing to involve herself rather than remain neutral,” I said, somewhat bitterly. Venice had enough might—both financial and military—that had she declared herself opposed to Charles’s coming invasion, he likely would have been given pause. But Venice kept herself above the conflict embroiling the Italian peninsula, as she always did unless there was something in it for her.
Once again I could not help but dream of a united Italy, one strong enough that foreign invaders could not pick her apart at will. If only all the petty princelings and lords could put aside their differences and join together. But they would never come to it on their own. They needed a strong leader to unite them, one as mighty as Giulio Cesare had been.
Father chuckled, bringing me back to our conversation. “Agreed.”
We looked out over the vast countryside spread before the castle before he spoke again. “But you, Cesare,” he said, turning to me. “What think you of our chances? You did well today,” he added. “Your plan is a sound one, and has aided us greatly, I daresay.”
I kept my smile of pride to myself. “I do not know as we can stop them,” I said bluntly. “I do not think our entire force together—Naples, Orsini, and the few papal troops we have—is enough to repel them. Their numbers are greater, and I have heard of a new kind of siege gun they have, one that shoots iron instead of stone, and can easily be maneuvered and transported. If that is true, I do not know how any force in Italy can stand against them. And,” I added, “we are starting too late. As I said, they could be nearer than we know. We may be too late to stop them.”
Father frowned. “The odds are not good, but I do not think defeat is inevitable. You forget Giovanni Sforza’s force in your tally. I will write to him as soon as we return to Rome, and he will bring his army directly.”
I laughed outright. “Giovanni Sforza’s force is hardly enough to tip the scale,” I said. “Even if he brings it. He has no desire to find himself on the opposite side of a battlefield from his cousin Ludovico.” And Ascanio, I thought silently. The Milanese snake. In consistory in March, when the pope announced he favored the claim of Alfonso of Naples after the death of King Ferrante, Ascanio had sided with his brother and come out in support of the French claim, showing his true colors at last. He had, however, spoken harshly against Giuliano della Rovere’s push to form a council to depose Pope Alexander, and if anything could save him from the pope’s wrath after this conflict was over—if we survived it—it would be this.
“He will bring it,” Father said. “If he knows what’s good for him.”
“I really and truly do not think he does.” At least he had gotten Lucrezia out of harm’s way. In February he had finally insisted on taking her to Pesaro, and the pope, out of reasons to forbid it, had acquiesced. I had tried to stop it, sure the coming conflict would prove that Lucrezia’s husband must be set aside, and in his own castle he would surely consummate the marriage—but I was, as was so often the case, overruled. I had suffered many a sleepless night of shame that I had not been able to keep my promise to her.
But with the French on their way, I was glad that Lucrezia was out of the way in Pesaro, a place of no interest to King Charles. Rome would soon become unsafe for us all, let alone a woman as young and precious as my sister.
I wondered, fleetingly, if she had taken pretty Maddalena with her. Since Lucrezia’s departure I had sadly had no occasion
to visit the Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico.
“And,” Father went on, “you forget what is perhaps our best card to play, beyond armies and military strategy. Only the Pope of Rome can invest a man with the crown of Naples. Charles cannot afford to alienate and make an enemy of me. He must stay in my good graces.”
“Giuliano della Rovere has a solution to that,” I said darkly. “He means for Charles to depose you and make him pope, and he shall invest the French king with the crown.”
“Della Rovere overreaches,” Father said, irritated but not worried. “It is no small feat to depose a pope. Even a king would hesitate before doing so. I am God’s chosen, remember.”
He said these last words without a hint of irony, and I wondered if he had come to believe them; if he truly believed now that God had set him on St. Peter’s throne rather than his own wealth and politics and political maneuvering.
Yet it did not matter. Nothing did. We might not even survive the next few months. “I do not think this will end well for us,” I said, turning to go back into the castle. “And no matter what happens, it certainly will not end well for Italy.”
Chapter 21
MADDALENA
Rome, September 1494
Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico was quiet without Madonna Lucrezia. The same crowds of visitors came to see Giulia Farnese, but the halls and rooms seemed emptier, somehow, less full of life.
I had been sorry to see her go, but thrilled at the joy and hope I saw in her eyes. Once they were away from Rome and her powerful family, perhaps this would be a new chance for her and her husband. “I wish I could take you with me to Pesaro, Maddalena,” she’d said regretfully when she had told me she was leaving. “But my lord husband has said there are more than enough servants there, and so I am taking only a few of my ladies and my maid Pantasilea. You shall remain here and serve Adriana and Giulia. I am certain they have enough mending to keep you busy.”
I had curtsied. “I am glad to keep my position, Madonna, but sorry to see you go.”
She smiled at me. “You are too sweet, Maddalena! But never fear, we shall return to Rome often to see Father and Cesare, and perhaps even live here some months. I must arrange it all with my lord, of course.”
And so she had ridden off one rainy February morning, bound for her husband’s northern castle. No doubt she would find it very different from Rome, but I hoped she would like it.
I was still contemplating my return to country life. Federico had returned home not long after his proposal for his brother’s burial, but had come back to Rome soon after, bringing me the greetings of his parents.
“They are delighted I have found a good woman to make my wife,” he said as we went for a stroll one night, his eyes alight with joy and pride. “I spoke often of your beauty, your piety, your skill with a needle, and all the rest. They are very eager to meet you, Maddalena mia. You are welcome at my home at any time.”
I had smiled, genuinely touched by the affection his parents had for me without ever having met me, but it only served to make me all the more guilty for my reluctance. “I am eager to meet them as well,” I’d replied, “but we shall stay some time yet, sì? I am quite fond of Rome.”
Federico had stopped and kissed me right there in the street. “Of course, we shall wait as long as you need,” he said. “I am not ready to return home yet, either. We shall go when we are good and ready.”
Yet it became quite apparent to me I would likely never be ready to leave Rome. And Federico was beginning to sense my reluctance. When Lucrezia had departed for Pesaro, he had assumed we could leave Rome soon, for I no longer had anything keeping me there. But I continued to put him off, saying Adriana and Giulia had more need of me than ever before now that some of the staff was gone. Federico had accepted this readily, but of late he was beginning to grow impatient.
“Donna Lucrezia has yet to return to Rome,” he had said the night before. “I understand that you liked serving her. But she no longer lives here. What then is keeping you at Santa Maria in Portico? Surely Adriana de Mila and Giulia Farnese can find another maid.”
“Surely they can,” I agreed, “but I wish to save more money yet. I want to bring something to our marriage. I have no dowry, only what I can earn for myself.” That much was true, if not the whole truth.
I spent hours in prayer in the chapel, begging God to give me clarity. Yet the only answer I received was Uncle Cristiano’s words, reminding me that marriage was the state that God most desired for his flock.
It was clear what God wished for me to do. That much was most plain. So why did something in my heart rebel?
If I truly did not wish to marry Federico, I owed him the honesty of telling him so. Yet the thought of turning him away caused my heart to constrict painfully. I did not want to lose him; indeed, I could not imagine my life without his warm eyes and jokes and the way he was always interested in how I had spent my day. Who knew such a man could exist?
Then why was I not eager to marry him? Was it really only that I loved my life of independence? Or was it something more?
I found myself thinking of Uncle Cristiano’s other words, how lust was the root of all sin. Was it my lust for independence, my pride in my own small accomplishments, that kept me from returning to marriage, as a good woman should? Perhaps. And so I prayed for forgiveness for that sin, prayed for it to be taken from my heart. But I remained as confused and conflicted as ever.
What do you want, Maddalena?
Yet dire news from up north had quelled thoughts of marriage and the future temporarily. Word had arrived just last week that the French army, led by King Charles VIII, had crossed the Alps and entered Italy.
No further news had come since—save the gossip of visitors and what we servants picked up in the streets—yet the ladies I served could discuss little else.
“How can you eat at a time like this?” Donna Adriana fretted, pacing about the room as Giulia helped herself to the plate of sweetmeats I’d served.
La Bella arched one of her perfect eyebrows. “Are we not to eat until the French have left the Italian peninsula, then?” she queried.
“Oh, you know that’s not what I mean,” Adriana said, finally sitting down beside Giulia. “I’ve had a letter from one of my cousins. They say the army Charles has brought with him is bigger than anything we’ve seen in years. Certainly in my lifetime.”
This sent a chill through me. A bigger army than those possessed by the lords and princelings of Italy? Bigger than the armies that clashed throughout the countryside at each and every perceived slight, trampling anyone and anything that stood in their way?
“His Holiness has a plan and is confident,” Giulia said sedately. “If his fighting men cannot do it, he will stop the French with the power of the Holy See.”
“Rodrigo is the most intelligent and canny of men,” Adriana said, her agitation plain in the way she slipped in referring to the Holy Father by his Christian name, rather than any of the proper addresses about which she was so careful. “If anyone can save us, it is he. But there is such opposition…”
The ladies continued on—if Giulia knew any details of the strategy of the papal-Neapolitan forces, she did not share them—but my mind strayed from their chatter while I mended in my nearby chair.
They were worried about their families, their politics, whether they would retain their prominence and power—and rightfully so, no doubt; had I any of those things, I would surely be frightened of losing them as well. Yet there were so many who stood to lose much more: their livelihoods, their homes, and their very lives.
When I was a girl of twelve or so, two of the neighboring lords had taken it into their heads to fight. No doubt over borders and land, as much of the conflict in the Romagna was. One of their armies had ridden through our village, and though the people there had no cause to meddle in the politics of lords, we were not spared. The soldiers stole food from storehouses—food that families had been counting on to see them through the
winter—and torched the buildings and farms of any who dared resist. Any woman on the street, no matter her age, was raped, and any man who tried to intervene was cut down where they stood.
Mother and I had huddled within our cottage, united, for once, in our terror, unable to do more than simply pray that the ruffians would pass us by. Miraculously, they did, only stealing our one horse and the pig we had been about to slaughter for meat. It made for a lean winter, but we counted our blessings nothing worse had befallen us. Many of our neighbors were not so lucky.
And now people from the Alps to Naples lay in the path of this French king and his massive invading army. Were they any better or more merciful than the petty princelings of the Romagna? Surely a king conducted himself with more honor and saw to it his soldiers did as well.
But Rome had shown me that a man’s station was not necessarily a guarantee of his character, much as the priests and nobles wanted to assure us it was otherwise. I wanted to believe the people in villages like mine would be safe, but I found I could not.
That night, after being dismissed, I went to the chapel and spent several hours in prayer. Not for myself this time—for in the coming conflict I was as safe as Adriana and Giulia were, which was likely as safe as anyone in Italy—but for the common people who were in the way of the armies that would meet in battle. If God did not watch over them, no one would.
Chapter 22
CESARE
Rome, November 1494
It was a good plan, the plan that we’d made at Vicovaro. Yet—as I’d known—we’d put it into action too late.
“He had one job, the fool!” Father snarled, tossing the letter to the floor. He whirled away from me and paced the floor. “Piero de’ Medici had one task and he, worthless fool that he is, couldn’t even do that. Oh, Lorenzo is rolling in his grave, make no mistake.” He stalked to the window and peered out as though he expected the French to be at the gates of the Vatican. “All the idiotic boy had to do was block the roads into Tuscany—easy enough from a military standpoint—and he could not manage it.”
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