His presence at this audience could mean nothing good. He would only have bothered to attend if Father had ordered him directly, and I could think of no acceptable reasons for that.
He had dispensed with the bandages, revealing a healing gash on his right cheek. As I suspected, it would likely heal with just enough of a scar to make him feel like more of a man. When he saw me, he straightened up from where he’d been leaning against the wall outside of the audience chamber, as though he’d been waiting for me. “Brother,” he said. “It has been a long time. Are you well?”
“Perfectly,” I said. “You look well also. I see you are wearing your defeat lightly.”
Anger darkened his features, and I saw the effort it took him to fight it back. “No military man is without defeat,” he said. “It is learning from it that counts. I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Cardinal Borgia.” He spoke my title mockingly.
I chuckled. “Another thing you lost on the battlefield at Soriano, Juan, is your ability to bait me.” I walked past him and into the audience chamber.
Father entered via the rear door right as I did and took his seat on the papal throne. I bowed and took my place at his right. Juan entered, his brow slightly furrowed, and bowed as well, taking a spot to Father’s left—though, I noticed with petty satisfaction, at a greater distance than I.
Once the rest of the ministers and advisors and cardinals had entered, Father nodded to Burchard. “Send in Cordoba.”
Burchard bowed and gestured to a footman, who turned and left the audience chamber. He returned with Cordoba in tow, flanked by two of his lieutenants. “Captain Gonsalvo de Cordoba, Your Holiness,” the footman announced, bowing.
Cordoba approached the papal throne and knelt, kissing the pope’s slipper and ring. “Rise, Don Cordoba,” the pope said, almost fondly. The two lieutenants went through the same ritual, then the three stood before the pope, waiting for him to begin.
“We are very pleased to see you, Captain,” Father began, “and thank you for responding so quickly to our summons. We pray you extend our thanks and continued goodwill to your sovereigns, Their Most Catholic Majesties Isabella and Ferdinand.”
Cordoba bowed. “I thank you for the honor of your summons, Holy Father, and will extend your salutations to their most Serene Highnesses.” His Latin carried a heavy Spanish accent.
“Excellent. You know the task we have set you. We wish for the French to be driven from their last lair on Italian shores, and as such they must be driven from the port city of Ostia. We entrust this to your capable hands.”
Cordoba bowed again. “I am honored to accept.”
“We do not send you to accomplish this alone, without any support from Holy Mother Church. We shall send with you the Captain-General of the Church, Juan Borgia, Duke of Gandia.”
Juan strode to stand beside the Spaniards before the papal throne, bowing to the pope. “I am honored to accept this task, and to go forth and serve Your Holiness against your enemies,” Juan said, his voice loud and confident. God’s teeth, when had the man not been possessed of confidence that he was in no way entitled to?
I had opened my mouth to object before I remembered where we were. This was a disaster in the making at worst, a huge mistake at best, but I could not question the pope here. It would have to be done in private.
He had already announced it publicly, so no doubt he would never go back on it. But I’d be damned if I did not have my say.
Father was beaming down at Juan. Not a man for politics, Cordoba’s face remained stony even as he spoke. “I am honored that Your Holiness would send the Captain-General with me for this expedition,” he said. “His skills will come in very handy.”
It was a credit to Cordoba that he was able to say as much with a straight face.
“We have no doubt as to the success of this venture and give you our blessing.” Father made the sign of the cross over the men. “Go forth and conquer our enemies and return to us when you are victorious.”
All four men bowed, and turned to leave, Juan leaning in to say something to Cordoba. No doubt some point of “strategy” Cordoba would be wise to discard. From what I knew of him as a soldier and a commander, he would have no qualms about doing just that. We might actually succeed in this venture.
The audience at an end, those gathered dispersed, and Father retreated back to his private rooms. I followed, though I had not been summoned. If I waited for a summons, I would never get to speak to him.
“Your Holiness,” I said tightly, walking into his dressing chamber where one of his servants was removing his formal vestments. “A word, if I may.”
“We did not send for you, Your Eminence,” he said coolly.
So that was how this was going to go.
“I noticed. I also noticed that once again, you did not discuss this particular strategy with me beforehand.”
“That is correct.”
“It seems to me quite a persistent pattern. You have sent me into the Church—against my stated wishes—claiming a desperate need for my wise counsel. Yet in certain matters—namely those that pertain to my brother Juan—you feel no need for said counsel.”
“I already know what your counsel in such matters will be.”
“No doubt. And so it would seem that when you’ve something planned you know I will disapprove of, you decide against informing me at all. Has it never occurred to you to heed these objections of mine? If you need and trust my counsel so?”
“That is enough,” he said shortly. “The announcement has been made, and Juan will be leaving with Captain Cordoba’s troops to take back Ostia. It is done.”
“After what happened at Bracciano and Soriano? Why? I cannot believe I must even ask the question! What further proof could you possibly need that Juan is unfit to command a nobleman’s palace guard, let alone entire armies?”
“Gonsalvo de Cordoba is in command here,” Father pointed out. “Do you doubt his abilities as a commander, or the skills and discipline of his troops? They are well-seasoned Spanish soldiers, Cesare.”
“I do not doubt him or his men,” I said. “But in what way is Juan going to be a help and not a hindrance?”
“He will learn from one of the best,” Father said. “Cordoba will command, and Juan will see how it is done, how one might be successful in such a role. It will be good for Juan—and more importantly, the Borgia family—to have his name attached to a successful venture. He shall recoup some of the honor lost at Soriano, and he shall further his education in the military arts.”
“So you are using Cordoba to restore Juan’s reputation?”
“I am sending Cordoba to accomplish a task that will benefit us as well as his monarchs and native land,” Father said, his impatience beginning to get the better of him. “There are benefits all around.”
I threw up my hands. “If you say so, Father.”
I turned to leave, but as I reached the door, he called out to stop me. “Cesare. He is my son, just as much as you are. I cannot cast him aside without giving him a chance to redeem himself.”
I stayed silent, struggling with what to say. Was there ever anyone less worthy of redemption than Juan?
“You must pray for his success,” Father added. “His triumph will be the triumph of the whole family.”
God’s teeth, how sick I was of our family name resting solely on Juan’s incompetent shoulders. And in that one awful moment of rage and envy and spite, deep down, I wished Juan would never return. That he would fall on the battlefield. For surely that was what would be best for the reputation of the house of Borgia.
I turned and left.
* * *
In early March, with Juan headed for Ostia with Cordoba and his men, it was time to turn our attention to other matters. Chiefly, one Giovanni Sforza of Pesaro.
Despite the fact that Sforza had reluctantly raised his men and joined the army marching to Ostia upon the pope’s rather forceful suggestion, it was plain he had reached the end of his
usefulness—not that he had ever been particularly useful in the first place.
“Sforza must go,” Father said bluntly as we settled by the fire with our wine, mulled with spices and warmed against the chill in the air. “The French will be back, no doubt. They have not fully given up on Naples. And eventually the French royal family will remember they also have an ancestral claim to Milan, if they have not already.”
I snorted. “And when that day comes, it will not do for us to be bound in any way to Ludovico Sforza.”
“Precisely.”
“Divorce, then?” I asked.
Father leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin. “What would be the grounds?”
“Non-consummation? He did not consummate the marriage, as we directed, for months after the marriage.”
“You are certain?”
“Yes,” I said. “One of Lucrezia’s maids confirmed it, at the time.” Pretty, sweet Maddalena. Sancia had largely driven her from my thoughts, but it was still a pleasure to see her when I visited my sister. Likely for the best. She did not need to be entangled with one such as me.
“But since, he has taken her to his castle,” Father pointed out. “And the date we asked him to wait for has long since passed. Do you really believe she lived with him in Pesaro for all that time and he did not exert his rights as a husband?”
“No,” I admitted. “We can ask her, of course, but I’m certain he did. To say Sforza resented your directive would be putting it mildly.” The son of a bitch had probably consummated the marriage as soon as she stepped into the entrance hall of his castle. My blood boiled at the thought.
“What, then?” Father mused. “What are our other options?”
“There is always poison,” I said offhandedly. After all, it may have worked for Ludovico Sforza.
Father considered this. “I am the Pope of Holy Mother Church, the Vicar of Christ on earth,” he said softly. “I cannot be party to any such thing.”
“It could be done without your knowing.” No one would know what had happened or who had carried it out; I would see to that. I might even enjoy doing it myself.
He shook his head. “No. That cannot be the way we do this.”
“As you wish.”
“It must be divorce,” Father decided. “We must make it work.”
“How? How, when the marriage has surely been consummated? Who will believe it has not?”
“I am the pope, Cesare,” Father said tersely. “The truth is what I say it is.”
This gave me pause. “Perhaps,” I allowed, “but—”
“Who will believe Sforza if he says it was consummated, if we say otherwise? Especially since she has not conceived a child.”
“Lucrezia will know,” I pointed out.
“Lucrezia will do as we tell her,” Father said. “She knows her first duty is to her family, not to her husband. I doubt she would be upset to be rid of him. It does not seem as though she is that fond of him.”
I was silent. Sforza was not the dashing, handsome prince of any young girl’s dreams, and though she’d never said as much to me, I knew Lucrezia was disappointed with him. Still, she was always attentive to him and his needs. She took the Church’s directive that wives must be loyal and obedient to their husbands very seriously and saw it as her duty.
But did she love Sforza? No, I was quite sure she did not. While she might be a bit chagrined at the thought of divorce initially, I had no doubt she would come around.
As if thinking the very same thoughts, Father said, “We will find her someone she will like better this time. A younger, more handsome man, with more useful connections.”
“Yes,” I said, excited by this discussion. “Yes, whatever it takes, Sforza must go.”
Father nodded. “I shall have Burchard direct the canon lawyers to begin looking into annulments, and what would be necessary. Discreetly.” He took a sip of wine. “Say nothing to Lucrezia. Not yet.”
Chapter 45
CESARE
Ostia surrendered to Cordoba and his forces on March 9, after a short struggle. Juan was of little help in the final outcome, or so my spies reported back to Michelotto.
You would never know it, I thought bitterly as I watched the triumphal parade enter the piazza in front of the Vatican, by the way Father carried on, and the way Juan—very much alive and well—was being honored. Since we’d received the news, Father had crowed about the victory to anyone within hearing, and about Juan’s (practically nonexistent) part in it. “The French are finally gone from Italy, Excellency,” he said to Girolamo Giorgio, the Venetian ambassador. “You have no doubt heard about the triumph we have effected at Ostia, where our son, the Duke of Gandia, took it back from the last of the French troops.” Or the day before, when he’d met with the Mantuan ambassador: “We expect our son, the Duke of Gandia, home tomorrow. He’s just won a great victory at Ostia. You will be present at the triumphal parade, yes?”
Father’s explanation that Captain Cordoba was the true leader of the expedition, with Juan attached to it simply as a means for the Borgia family to score political points, had been a good one, much as I hated to admit it. It spoke of sound political strategy, which any other use of Juan in a military situation did not. Yet it was as if he had forgotten his reasoning altogether, and genuinely believed Juan to be responsible for the capitulation of the French at Ostia.
Judging by Gonsalvo de Cordoba’s face as he rode beside Juan into the piazza—beside him, not at the front of the procession, as the commander had every right to do—he had heard at least some of what Pope Alexander had been saying.
The two men reached the Vatican steps and dismounted, walking side by side up to where the pope waited, enthroned with much of the Vatican court around him. Lucrezia was there, beaming in our brother’s direction. Her feckless husband was also part of the procession, due to his presence at Ostia, and she would be reunited with him soon. Beside them stood Jofre and Sancia. Jofre had leaned in to whisper something in Sancia’s ear, and while she was nodding attentively, her eyes wandered over the crowd. She caught my eye and let a slight smile spill onto her lips, winking at me. My blood heated at her small gesture, but it was not the time to lose focus. Later tonight, while I was inside her, I would tell her how I felt looking at her in that gown with its low-cut bodice, trimmed in fur, and how even before all of Rome I was hard-pressed to stop the stirrings in my cock … damn, Cesare, pull yourself together. As if knowing the danger I was in, Sancia’s eyes left mine and fastened on Juan as he and Cordoba approached, reminding me where my attention ought to be. I refocused just as the Holy Father rose from his throne, and they knelt.
The pope spoke words of welcome and praise, speaking highly of Cordoba’s skill as a soldier and a commander. Next he spoke of Juan’s skills as a leader and in all matters military, and I watched the pride on Cordoba’s face vanish into stony anger. For the love of all the saints, Father, stop, I thought beseechingly in his direction. The man has won us a victory, and you would antagonize him so?
It got worse at the banquet held in the Vatican after the procession. Juan was seated in the place of honor at the pope’s right hand, with Cordoba beside him. Father pronounced many toasts as the night went on, to victory, to the glory of God who had granted such a triumph, and to Juan by name. Gonsalvo de Cordoba, the true hero of Ostia, was never explicitly mentioned, and though he tried to maintain a pleasant and grateful demeanor, it was clear as the night wore on how further injured his pride was. Father did not notice in the least.
“What news, Michelotto?” I murmured as he came up toward the end of the feasting. With the return of the army, he had gone to speak to his spies, wanting to find the latest information.
“Nothing much of import, Eminence,” he said quietly. “There was a rather violent disagreement during the campaign between the Duke of Gandia and the Lord of Pesaro. Some matter of pride and strategy, apparently, and the two men nearly came to blows.”
Our eyes moved to seek out G
iovanni Sforza, seated farther down the table beside his wife. Lucrezia was laughing with Sancia on her other side, while Sforza simply sat and stared stonily, arms crossed over his chest. His wine goblet was empty and there were some traces of food left on his plate. He looked to be wishing the festivities were at an end.
“Perhaps that is why he is so surly,” Michelotto commented.
I smirked. “No doubt it is not that he is offended over the slight to Gonsalvo do Cordoba’s honor.” I took a swig from my goblet, eyes fixed on Sforza. “No, he always looks like that, Michelotto. At least when he is around us Borgias. He acts as though we are beneath him, even his wife, instead of thanking God for his good fortune each time he even thinks about touching her.” I took another sip of wine; I had consumed more than usual this evening, and it was making my tongue loose. “Ah, well. No matter. He will not be around much longer in any case.”
* * *
Sancia came to my rooms that night, and despite all the drink I’d had, I was ready. I practically threw her on the bed and plunged into her immediately, with no preliminaries. Her cries and urging told of her equal desperation for me. We reached our pleasure quickly, and the force of my climax nearly stopped me breathing. Never had it been like this for me with any other woman. Never would it be again.
“It is torture, night after night, when we are all together, to watch you and know you are mine in all the ways that count, but not in the eyes of God and the law,” I said to her afterward, once we had caught our breath. “I wish things were different,” I whispered against her neck. “I wish you were my wife and I need not ever be apart from you or see you with another man.”
“Or see me dance with Juan?” she teased, referring to earlier that night.
Fury ignited in my breast, but I tamped it down. I had just cut open my heart for her, and she responded by teasing me? “Yes. That is a sight I need never see again.”
The Borgia Confessions Page 25