And as far as his plans for Florence were concerned, Caesar seemed to have abandoned the cat-and-mouse approach. Indeed, he was throwing all caution to the four winds—bragging, swaggering. Where was the Caesar who never says what he does? And his insistent invocation of the royal prerogative—“we” and “us” had replaced “I” and “me.” Already an emperor in his own mind, he was losing control over his ambition. The question was, did that make him less dangerous? Or more?
It was near the end of their conversation when Niccolo had leaned close to him, very close, that his suspicions were confirmed. In the subdued light of the brothel, they had been barely discernible, obscured and hidden among the curly growth of beard that wreathed Borgia’s mouth. But the yellow pustules were there. The disease had taken root. It’s inevitable, destructive rush to madness and death was underway.
The Italians generally referred to it as the French Disease. The French preferred to call it the Neapolitan Disease. The Neapolitans, for their part, were inclined to label it the Spanish Disease. No one, it seems, wanted to accept responsibility. It went by many other names as well—bolle, the pox, even plague—but its effects were the same for all, no matter what it was called. It was a rapid, degenerative, and mortal illness.
The first cases of syphilis in Europe were diagnosed in Barcelona in 1493. An outbreak of the disease was discovered among the crew of the recently returned ships of the Genovese navigator Cristoforo Colombo, who, sailing under the flag of Spain, claimed to have discovered a new world.
From the sailors who had contracted it from the inhabitants of this new world, the disease quickly spread to prostitutes, and from them it entered the general population. Transmitted by sexual intercourse, the new disease spread like wildfire through all of Europe. The primary agency of that spread were the incessantly warring armies full of itinerant mercenary soldiers. In the wake of these ubiquitous armies, the new pestilence burned its way from one end of the continent to the other. Within the space of only four years, no small corner had been left untouched, unravaged by its onslaught.
In the rapid spread of this scourge, there were many who saw the hand of God at work, many who said that immoral sexual behavior was being punished and that the moral turpitude of the times was being made manifest in the rotting bodies of the infected. To be sure, the disease was denounced from the pulpit, although, curiously enough, many of the very prelates who raised the hue and cry most vociferously were themselves both victims and transmitters of the curse.
Treatments, of course, had been devised, the most extreme of which was the cauterization of the lesions with red-hot irons, but nothing had proven even remotely effective. To make matters worse, it was impossible to chart the course of the disease with any accuracy. Some died rapidly within a year after being infected. Others succumbed several years later. Still others seemed to recover but lived in constant fear of a relapse. How long could the disease remain virulent in the body? No one could say. At the time of our story, it had only been known in Europe for a period of nine years. Many could be infected without even knowing it, and an entire continent was in the grip of the indescribable terror of uncertainty.
Like the madness and death it engendered, the epidemic struck impartially among rich and poor alike, prince and pauper, man and woman. The fact that he was the pope’s son did not exempt Caesar Borgia from its ravages.
As Niccolo climbed the stairs to his beloved, one image tormented him—Vitellozzo Vitelli. In Caesar Borgia’s chamber of horrors, among those hideous rows of severed heads, only Vitellozzo displayed no anger, no fear. Even in its ashen, bloodless mask of death, his face was twisted into a mad, demented smile. His skin was covered with scabs and ugly, running sores. Only a few pus-clotted strands of scraggly hair remained on his scalp, and his nose had been almost completely eaten away. Yet he was grinning, grinning even in death. His toothless mouth was pulled back and frozen in the grinning rictus of the utterly, impossibly mad.
Giuditta was waiting for him. Immediately sensing Niccolo’s bewilderment, she refrained from needling him again and simply asked how things had gone. “Miserably,” said Niccolo. “You were right about the disease—I saw the evidence, the chancres around his mouth. And from the way he talked and acted, it’s beginning to affect his mind, his judgment.”
“Then all you have to do is wait him out.”
“That’s just the problem. How long do we have to wait? Caesar mad may be even more unpredictable, more volatile. His moves may be even more rash and destructive. You have medicine, science, you tell me how long it will take for him to succumb to the disease.”
“It could be a week. It could be years.”
“It could be years,” said Niccolo, throwing up his hands. “And in a year’s time, Caesar could be insane and still be emperor of all of Italy. In a year’s time, he could be hopelessly demented and still be pope!”
“Or he could be dead,” said Giuditta. “Caesar’s been infected for almost eight years now. Time is on your side.”
“And there is no cure, you’re certain of that?”
“There are ways of treating the lesions to ease the pain. Sometimes they even go away, but they come back.”
“What sort of treatment would you use?”
“A balm made of mercury mixed in pork fat. That seems to work best. Sometimes it slows the progress of the disease. But it has one disadvantage.”
“What’s that?”
“It makes the hair fall out.”
Niccolo thought again of Vitellozzo, hairless in death. He had obviously been using the balm, the best remedy available against the disease. It had done him precious little good.
“Here, take a glass of this, to get your mind off of disease,” Giuditta presented a small cup of delicately scented liquor to the troubled diplomat.
“This is delicious. What is it?”
“Something I made myself—Rossoli.”
“What’s in it?”
“A few pounds of rose petals, orange blossoms, cinnamon, and cloves. They have to soak in plenty of alcohol. Then I distill it.”
“It’s probably good for the digestion,” said Niccolo absentmindedly, contemplating his cup.
“Oh, no doubt.”
“What about the woman who went with Caesar?” said Niccolo suddenly. “Isn’t she afraid of getting the disease from him?”
“Pasiphae? She isn’t afraid of anything. And how can anyone refuse the Bull? Besides, she likes to boast that she’s immune to the disease, that it can’t touch her.”
“Is it true?”
“She doesn’t have it. And she’s not always discreet about the company she keeps. Some of her companions are downright ulcerous, in fact.”
“And she doesn’t get the disease. What’s her secret?”
“Maybe it’s because she’s Florentine and her blood is too proud and fierce and too pristine to get infected.”
Niccolo sulked.
“There is one other possibility,” said Giuditta.
“What’s that?”
“It only works for Christians though,” she said wickedly. “Holy water and prayer.”
Niccolo stayed the night, and the next morning, he collected his exhausted friend Michelozzi on his way out of the brothel. They passed once again through the small chapel where the nuns still maintained their vigil. Niccolo looked at them with renewed interest. Giuditta had told him they were armed guards.
The stench that greeted them in the streets was as overpowering as it had been the night before, but the noise level had died down somewhat. It was Sunday morning—the day of rest. “I’ve got an idea,” said Michelozzi gaily. “Since it’s the Lord ’s Day, why don’t we attend mass?”
Niccolo begged off, but Michelozzi was insistent. “Not just any mass, a papal mass! Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like to get a look at the supreme pontiff.”
Niccolo jumped at the idea—Alexander VI! The Borgia pope! The antichrist! Caesar’s father! And so, at Michelozzi’s suggestion, t
he two of them took up positions at the far end of St. Peter’s Square to await the arrival of the Vicar of Christ. Across from them, the massive, but unfinished church looked mournful and neglected.
“That’s St. Peter’s,” said Niccolo. “It’s a shambles.”
“You’re not implying the Holy Father’s been remiss in the execution his ecclesiastical responsibilities, are you?” said Michelozzi.
“There have been certain rumors to that effect,” said Niccolo. “Not a single saint canonized during his pontificate, and he’s been pope now for eleven years.”
“The saints are dead and they can wait! Alexander reserves his energies for the living.”
“And for his mistresses.” added Niccolo. “But seriously, has he done anything for the church at all, aside from trying to pass it on to his son as a hereditary kingdom?”
Michelozzi searched his memory. “He has sent missionaries to convert Greenland to Christianity.”
“Where’s that?”
“North. To the far, far north. But he’s sent them to the south as well, to Africa, to the Congo.”
“I suppose that’s his way of getting rid of the overzealous priests.”
“Don’t be so cynical,” said Michelozzi. “It was Alexander who divided up the New World between the Spanish and the Portuguese with his famous line of demarcation. And the only stipulation he put on the conquests of both nations was that they contrive to introduce the Catholic faith into their new territories.”
“Bravo!” said Niccolo. “One day, all the world will be Catholic and have only Alexander to thank for it.” As he spoke, a shrill blast of heralds’ trumpets filled the air, announcing the arrival of Pope Alexander VI.
Preceding him into the piazza was a double line of about thirty cardinals, all dressed in the most exquisite red satin. Behind him were as many courtiers, mostly Spanish, attired from head to foot in purple. The pope himself was clad in white—immaculate, stunning white—and mounted on a snow-white charger. From the ends of his soft, white leather shoes to the tip of his gold-and-white triple crown, he was the very picture of angelic brilliance. Floating in a cloud of blinding light above the stained and sodden city, he dispensed blessings freely as he went, and flung handfuls of coins into the ragged crowds at his feet.
“So this is Caesar’s father,” Niccolo thought to himself. There was no real family resemblance. While Caesar was dark and swarthy, the pope’s complexion was a cheerful, rosy color. Alexander was a big man, bigger than his son. Not fat, but portly, he wore his seventy-some-odd years well. His smile was radiant, his countenance kind and indulgent. He carried himself in a manner that was grand, altogether papal—some might say, imperial.
Alexander stepped lightly from his horse, for such a large man, and proceeded on foot into the church. His movements were easy, generous, and like those of his son, confident. Following the procession into the church, Niccolo noticed signs of stonework and plastering that had apparently been suspended and left unfinished. There was rubble and debris piled everywhere.
Alexander intoned the mass in a strong, sonorous voice that filled the cavernous basilica—“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. Introibo ad altare Dei.”
A chorus of high-ranking prelates responded, “Ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.” And the mass was underway. Niccolo did not notice it at first, through the initial prayers and readings, but it became apparent by the time the pope reached the Credo, the solemn profession of faith that occurs about half way through the mass. The Holy Father had forgotten the words! He skipped over certain passages, substituted Spanish phrases for Latin, and occasionally had to be prompted by one of his cocelebrants. Through it all, his munificent smile never deserted him, and his buoyant, confident tone never faltered. If nothing else, the pope was a consummate showman.
For the rest of July and the beginning of August, Niccolo made himself comfortable in Rome, dividing his time between days in the Florentine colony, attending to chancery business, and nights in the Convent of the Fallen Angels. If the stifling heat and humidity grew steadily worse as summer wore on, Niccolo’s over-sensitive nose and his delicate stomach adapted little by little to the smells and tastes of Rome. He got to the point where would even take an occasional meal outside the safety of the Florentine colony and its imported Tuscan fare. Of course, most of these meals were prepared for him by his beloved. He was still not courageous enough to entrust his digestive apparatus to a Roman trattoria.
“What’s that?” said Niccolo, pointing doubtfully to a contraption that Giuditta was assembling over the fire. She was making a lamb stew, and, as usual, Niccolo insisted on supervising in the kitchen, as much from curiosity as caution.
“It’s a bagno-Maria, Mary’s bath,” she replied going about her work. The “bath” consisted of two parts, a pot suspended in a pan of water. “It’s the best way to stew meat.”
“You can’t fry it?”
“This way the meat cooks gently, over steam. It stays moist.”
“Hmmmph,” said Niccolo. “It looks more like a piece of alchemist’s equipment than a cooking utensil.”
“You’re very observant,” said Giuditta. “That’s exactly what it is. Or was. Alchemy and cooking are two branches of the same science, you know. I read about this device in a treatise on distillation that covered all three of the related arts—cooking, medicine, and magic!”
Niccolo rolled his eyes. “And who wrote this dark treatise? Some Moorish sage?”
“A woman, as a matter of fact. Maria di Cleofa. That’s why it’s called a bagno-Maria. She invented it.”
“Never heard of her,” said Niccolo dismissively.
“No? Are you sure? And I thought you were such a historian! Always trailing around with those books by your sacred Livy on the ancient Romans.”
“Your Maria was no Roman.”
“Wasn’t she? Perhaps not by birth, but she was involved in governing a small, far-flung corner of their empire for them. Egypt, to be exact, where she ruled under the name of Cleopatra the Wise.”
Niccolo groaned. He was going to have to eat a meal prepared by a sorceress with the aid of a treatise written by a witch. However, his apprehension vanished when that meal was finally served. Giuditta put before him thick, succulent chunks of lamb as big as his fist and swimming in a sauce perfumed with sage. On the plate beside the stew, grilled artichokes lay like fat, black flowers. At the first bite, all Niccolo’s doubts were dispelled, and he believed that Cleopatra the Wise had indeed discovered something valuable—the marriage of cooking and magic.
When they had finished eating, Niccolo washed down his superb repast with several doses of Giuditta’s Rossoli, the exquisite liquor that represented the marriage of drinking and magic.
“Would you like to accompany me on an errand?” asked Giuditta. “I think it’s something that might interest you.”
“What’s that?” said a groggy, sated Niccolo.
“I heard about a man who has a cure for the French disease.”
Niccolo sat up at attention.
Giuditta continued, “It’s only a rumor. One of the girls heard it from somebody who heard it from somebody else. But it’s worth checking it out—for professional reasons.”
Alert now, Niccolo agreed to accompany her. “And where are we going?”
“To the hospital of San Giacomo degli Incurabili—Saint James of Incurable Diseases.”
Giuditta walked with ease and confidence through the treacherous, teeming streets of Rome like an angel walking blithely through the fires of hell. Just as nonchalantly, she explained to Niccolo the infinite variety and the specialization of thieves and thievery in Rome.
“A cutpurse would never stoop to stealing bread or fruit or stores from a shop. The men who steal livestock pride themselves on hustling the living animals and would never consider stealing a side of dead meat. There’s a whole professional guild system of thievery. Pride in one’s craft. Specialization. Some specialize in robbing fo
reigners. Others boast that they touch only Frenchmen. There are thieves who steal clothes while they’re drying on a line. Others who tear them from the backs of clerics alone. Some thieves will not move out of a particular neighborhood; others range over the whole city. There are women and children who lure strangers into dark places with the promise of sex and have them set upon. It goes on and on.”
“And the law?” asked Niccolo.
“What law? The pope is the only real power here, and he’s busy with his own projects. Otherwise, there are maestri di strada, neighborhood strongmen, who are better at extortion than keeping the peace. That’s how things are done in Rome.”
Niccolo had another flash of Florentine chauvinism, which he kept to himself since he was tired of Giuditta teasing him about his feelings of superiority. But he could not help drawing a comparison between this stinking Roman corruption and anarchy and the way things were done in Florence, where citizens were protected by the rule of law and a constitution. And where the streets were clean and the food safe to eat.
They passed through the Borgo district in the shadows of the Papal palace, where printers and booksellers had set up their shops and stands. Niccolo insisted on stopping and browsing through the piles of books and manuscripts available there. There were bargains to be found, as much of the merchandise was stolen and the thieves, being for the most part illiterate, had no idea what they were selling.
In triumph, Niccolo extracted a dusty tome from a heap of similar volumes and eagerly began examining it to determine if it was complete with all the gatherings in place.
“What are you so excited about?” asked Giuditta.
“Plutarch’s Parallel Lives!” said Niccolo. “Lives of illustrious Greek statesmen alongside biographies of illustrious Romans—so comparisons can be drawn. It’s fascinating.”
Machiavelli: The Novel Page 46