William needed to act with the greatest speed. Hastily he penned a letter to the Sultan, informing him that the situation remained unchanged despite the death of Louis, but that there would be inevitable delays in concluding the treaty, due to the accession of a new king. The letter was despatched at once, then William and Hussain rode off to the south-east as swiftly as they could.
*
It took some considerable time to reach Rome, for it was again winter, and necessary to retrace their steps through Savoy and Switzerland and Venice to avoid entering Habsburg or Genoese territory. Once again, however, William was assisted on his way by the Venetians, and since Venetian territory abutted the Papal States, he could assume his journey would be all but over by the spring of 1484.
This was far from being the case. The Doge was concerned at the modesty of his entourage, which was limited to Hussain, so hasty had been their departure from Paris.
“The roads are dangerous,” Foscari pointed out, anxious that no harm should befall such a delicate mission within Venetian territories.
At last William accepted an escort of six lancers, since the Doge was determined to prove to Bayazid that he was a reliable ally. He also changed back into his Turkish cuirass and helmet, with his trusty bow and quiver as well as scimitar, and his men carried their lances at rest.
Their journey took them by ship to Ravenna, prior to making the long trek across the Appenines and into the valley of the Tiber.
Ravenna was reminiscent of Venice itself, and owed its erstwhile greatness to being situated among lagoons and marshes which in antiquity had made it difficult to assault. But unlike Venice, its greatness was long past. The marshes were silting up, and the city was in utter decay.
From there they took the coast road to Rimini, the city held by the infamous Sigismondo Malatesta, who was reputed to have killed off two wives in succession to make way for the beautiful Isotta degli Atti. For this he had been placed under a papal interdict and forced into submission, but his illegitimate son Roberto, having slaughtered Sigismondo’s legitimate heirs, had then become reconciled with the Pope.
All of this suggested that Italian politics were even more bloodstained than Turkish — or at least among the Malatesta. An ancestor, Gianciotto the Lame, had executed both his wife Francesca and her lover, his own brother Paolo, on discovering them in flagrante delicto.
After Rimini, their way lay south-west to Urbino, now enjoying a burst of splendour under the rule of the Montefeltro family; and thence to Assisi, basking in the glory of its local St Francis, recently canonised. In each of these places the passage of the Turkish envoy was an object of great curiosity and some alarm. But the presentation of his passports, from King of France and Doge of Venice, earned William and his men safe conduct.
Outside the towns, the hillsides and more lonely valleys were the haunts of some of the most desperate people William had ever encountered. He was told that they were relicts of the dreadful plague known as the Black Death, which had ravaged Europe a hundred and fifty years before. William knew that it had reduced the population of England by a third, and the Greeks in Constantinople still shuddered at the thought of it.
Apparently in Italy it had waxed more virulent than anywhere else. Whole communities had been wiped out; others had been shut off from the outside world for many months. The unfortunate people had turned into human wolves: starving, angry and vicious. Their descendants had found no reason to return to an honest living of tilling the soil or manufacturing. Instead they prowled the forests, poorly armed yet dangerous through their numbers, their knowledge of the terrain and their stealth. Obviously eight well-armed men were less of an easy target than a caravan of fat priests, but even so the temptation proved too much for bandits on more than one occasion.
Once Hawkwood’s camp fire was attacked by night, and the assailants driven off by a series of well-directed arrow volleys. On another occasion they found their path, through a narrow defile between steep cliffs, barred by some fifty ragged scoundrels, including women. Here was a chance for true Turkish horsemanship, in which the Venetians were happy to follow William’s lead. As the eight charged the human wall in front of them, William and Hussain fired their arrows with deadly accuracy at the full gallop, then drawing their scimitars just before impact, the Venetian lances at their shoulders. The sheer impetuosity of their assault carried them through, but Hawkwood had to mourn the loss of one of his men — brought down by a swinging club and immediately torn to pieces by the hungry savages. They rode on in an increasingly sombre frame of mind.
*
Because of all these delays, it was mid-August before they reached Rome, to find the Eternal City in turmoil. The Pope was ill and not expected to survive.
William thanked and dismissed his Venetians, with a suitable donation for their services. Thanks to King Louis’ generosity, he still possessed the larger part of his bag of gold. Then he sought lodgings for Hussain and himself — which was not difficult, even for heathens, so long as they were well supplied with gold. He then despatched another letter to Constantinople, again holding out promises. He was all too aware that he was working against time, and that his subterfuge would be revealed eventually, unless he could manage somehow to open negotiations with the Pope regarding Djem.
But he was allowed no admittance to the Vatican, despite presenting his credentials. For two weeks he laboured in vain, being met with polite but firm refusals by a certain Cardinal named Giuliano della Rovere, who seemed to act as the Pope’s secretary. He even told William that His Holiness would have nothing to do with any Turk save at the end of a lance.
When William was bold enough to ask if the Pope was also dealing with Prince Djem at the end of a lance, the Cardinal merely stared at him and turned to leave the room.
Once again he all but despaired; and the riotous conditions obtaining in this capital of the Christian world seemed to mock his plight.
In Paris a man needed to carry a sword and have a faithful servant at his back, but the criminal faction had clung to the back streets. Here in Rome there seemed even less respect for law than in the wild mountains. To go abroad without Hussain — and both of them heavily armed — was to risk being set upon by thugs at any hour of the day or night — the more so as he was obviously a foreigner.
The city was beautiful enough, with its myriad fountains and the ruins of the palaces and baths of the Caesars pushing their ancient stones up through tangled foliage which sprouted everywhere. By contrast Paris was crowded and mean and dirty, yet also vitally alive; while Rome presented an overwhelming aura of decay. Once-grand palazzi mouldered, the streets were unpaved and filthy, the surrounding countryside was crowded with half-starved beggars and bandits, and the streets of the city equally so. In the midst of which turmoil, the Roman nobility loved and laughed as if there was not a care in the world. While at the centre of all of it the Vatican still presumed to an external omnipotence of its own.
William had not yet determined how to breach that unassailable fortress, when the city was for the moment hushed by the news that the Pope was dead. But it reawakened into tumult the following week when the cardinals gathered to elect a new Pope.
Each reverent, scarlet-clad prince of the Church had to run the gauntlet of a seething mob yelling advice, threats and imprecations; and they only gained the sanctuary of the Vatican under the protection of the armed guards with which each was surrounded.
The mob then betook itself to the forecourt of St Peter’s, where it screamed and yelled its approbation or revilement of the various candidates.
William moved among them, and on this occasion he left Hussain at home, deeming that the mob was for the moment more interested in politics than mayhem. With them he stared up at the Sacred College, and with them could not help but shout his satisfaction when a puff of white smoke issued from the chimney to inform all Rome that a new Pope had been chosen.
Almost immediately a crowd of cardinals appeared on the balcony high above the
square, and announced to the anxious people that the new Pope was Cardinal Giovanni Battista Cibò, late Bishop of Savona, a Genoese who would take office under the name of Pope Innocent VIII.
This news was hailed with shrieks of execration by the mob, and for moments it seemed there would be a riot. However the Papal guards, composed of those same redoubtable pikeman William had met in Switzerland, moved forward to send the crowd scattering down the side-streets.
William would have hurried with them, but he was suddenly checked by a tall and cadaverous figure wrapped in a cloak, who gripped him by the arm and drew him into an alleyway.
William’s hand dropped to the hilt of his dagger.
“I mean you no harm,” the stranger said. “Are you he called Hawkwood, from Constantinople?”
William frowned at him. “What is it to you?” he demanded, still clutching his dagger, and glancing to left and right lest the stranger had accomplices.
“If you are the man I seek, there is one who would speak with you, and it will be greatly to your advantage.”
“Where is this man?”
“You will have to come with me.”
William studied him. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that Djem had sent an assassin after him. Yet was he forced to take the risk, for time was shorter than ever.
“The first sign of treachery, and you are a dead man,” he growled.
The stranger smiled. “I obey my master, and my master has bid me bring you to him. There is your safe warrant, Signor Hawkwood.”
William followed him round the side of the piazza, then down another side-street until they came to a postern gate set into a wall. This gate was locked, but his guide opened it with a key, and ushered him into an enclosed garden surrounded by high walls on three sides. On the fourth side was the palazzo itself; the place was thus utterly private.
Across this garden William followed, and through a doorway into the house. For all its decrepit exterior, as with most Roman houses, it was a place of some elegance within. And there was a figure seated in a chair.
“Your Eminence, this is the Turk, Hawkwood,” the guide said.
William found himself gazing at a man of medium build, with heavy, stern features and a pronounced nose and chin. He was not very old, perhaps in his early fifties, and exuded an air of arrogance and command William had rarely confronted before. Then he realised that the man wore the red robes of a cardinal, yet a stranger cardinal could rarely have been seen, for leaning on the back of his chair was a singularly beautiful woman, whose long dark hair drooped on to his flat red hat; while at his feet sat two young children, a boy of about ten and a girl of perhaps five, both exquisitely lovely, and both leaning against him intimately.
The Cardinal extended his hand to be kissed.
William hesitated, glancing at his guide, who nodded. William kissed the ring.
“Signor Hawkwood.” The voice was harsh. “I have heard much of you. But perhaps you have not heard much of me?”
William did not know what to reply to that.
The harsh features broke briefly into a smile. “I am Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia. The late Pope Calixtus was my uncle.”
The Cardinal paused to let that sink in, but William had in fact never heard of Pope Calixtus.
“He summoned me to Rome while I was still a young man, and indeed raised me to my present eminence. He died some time ago, and no doubt is receiving his just reward in Heaven,” the Cardinal said drily. “But until we, too, attain that state of grace, it is necessary to concern ourselves with the living. You are an ambassador from the Turkish Sultan?”
“I am, Your Eminence.” Suddenly Hawkwood’s spirits were lifting.
“And you are concerned with the whereabouts of Prince Djem.”
“That is my appointed mission, Your Eminence: to return him to his family.”
“So that he may be executed?”
William hesitated.
Again a brief smile crossed the Cardinal’s face. “For rebellion against his rightful sovereign. That is indeed a crime worthy of death. I would have you know that Prince Djem is safe and well in the Vatican. He will remain there until I have decided what to do with him.”
“You, sir?”
“Aye, me, boy. Me!” Suddenly the voice was strident. “It is my word that will rule here. Understand that and you may prosper.”
His brows were close-knit, his eyes flashed fire. William was taken aback by the sudden change of personality.
“So tell me what your master will offer for possession of this prince,” the Cardinal continued in a lower tone.
“You have but to name your price, Your Eminence. An alliance with the Padishah…?” he hesitated.
The Cardinal stared at him. “It would not be seemly for His Holiness to conclude an alliance with a Muslim. Rather he should preach a crusade against the fornicators and whoremongers who have stolen Constantinople from the Holy Church.”
Once again William was surprised by the change of mood, the gleaming eyes, by the vulgarity of the language.
But he also knew that with any habitual bully subservience was a mistake.
“There have been crusades against them before, Your Eminence. There are fields in Serbia where the grass is still obscured by whitened bones — and still the Ottomans prosper.”
Their eyes met, and suddenly the Cardinal was on his feet, glowering.
William continued smoothly, “But my master has no need of further conquests, and he would live at peace with all the world. But make no mistake: he has the strength to oppose all the world and stamp it into the dust. Would it not be better to live at peace with such power?”
For several seconds longer the Cardinal glared at him, breathing heavily. Then, as suddenly as with all his moods, he sat down and smiled.
“You are a bold rascal, Signor Hawkwood, and we must talk again. Meanwhile you will write to your Sultan, and tell him you have had an audience with me. Tell him I may be prepared to deal with him, on behalf of His Holiness, if he so desires it. And perhaps we can agree upon a common point of view as regards Prince Djem.” He extended his finger once more to be kissed.
***
William returned to his lodgings in a sorely puzzled frame of mind, but too relieved at the sudden upturn in his affairs to be concerned as to who actually controlled the Vatican, or with the morals of Cardinal Borgia.
He sat down and wrote to the Sultan immediately, this time setting forth everything that had happened, altering the dates to make it appear that all had transpired without his knowledge, and that his race from Paris to Rome had taken a much shorter period than in reality. He allowed himself to be bitterly vindictive against the machinations of the new French rulers, and advised Bayazid to have nothing more to do with them. He pointed out that any alliance with France would have advantages only for France, none for Turkey.
But the Pope was a different matter. As best he could, he suggested the great advantages to be gained were the Ottomans to gain the ear of His Holiness and come to an understanding with him, even if a formal alliance was out of the question. Certain that he had interpreted Cardinal Borgia’s meaning correctly, he indicated that Djem was probably available for ransom, and he strongly recommended that a suitable amount be offered.
He could do no more, save send the letter off with Hussain himself. The Cardinal was helpful here, and provided an escort to Ravenna, whence Hussain could take a Venetian galley for Constantinople.
But the Cardinal was more helpful yet. No sooner had the letter been despatched than William found himself invited to dine with him — and was again utterly astounded.
The dinner took place in the same palazzo where they had first met and which he soon discovered belonged to the dark-haired woman, Vanozza Catanei. She was the mother of the two beautiful children and several more…and was accepted by all as the Cardinal’s mistress. Signora Catanei indeed presided over the banquet, at which several other ladies were present, all dressed in diaphanous gowns an
d revealing extreme décolletages; all drinking wine and exchanging bawdy stories with the men. Several of the latter were wearing clerical garb, albeit there were no other cardinals present.
The whole was presided over by Borgia himself, who smiled benignly on the gathering, and indulged with the best of them.
If William seemed to have fallen on his feet, it was an extremely uncertain footing which seemed to grow more treacherous as the weeks went by.
He at least discovered something of the intrigues and hostilities which bedevilled the Holy City and its rulers. Rodrigo Borgia, born a Spaniard, had been appointed Bishop of Valencia while still less than twenty years old, thanks to his all-powerful uncle. Then summoned to Rome, as Vice-Chancellor of the Church he was raised to greatness at a very youthful age by Pope Calixtus. In this capacity he had quickly amassed a great fortune, while astonishing even the Romans by the profligacy of his lifestyle. But he had been safe from criticism as long as his uncle reigned.
Borgia had, however, the sense to appreciate that Calixtus would not live for ever, and he had spent his money not only to enjoy himself but also to make himself secure. It was a simple task: he used his great wealth to buy cardinals, and soon had accumulated no fewer than twenty-four lords of the church who were bound to his person, or at least to his purse-strings. With such a considerable proportion of the Sacred College at his back, he could afford to ignore the criticisms of Calixtus’ successors.
It early became apparent to William that Borgia’s sights were set on the Papacy for himself, but actually getting the Fisherman’s Ring on his finger was proving a long and difficult task. Only twenty-seven when his uncle had died in 1458, he had played the part of “kingmaker” to both Pius II — who, under his real name of Eneo Silvio Piccolomini had earned such a reputation as a skilful manipulator of foreign affairs on behalf of the Papacy that there really could be no other contender — and his successor Paul II, a nonentity named Pietro Barbo.
Barbo had died in 1471 and Borgia, then forty, had felt his moment was approaching. There was, however, another family which had the foresight to equip itself with a large block of captive votes in the Sacred College — the della Roveres. They had used this power, combined with a general revulsion at Borgia’s blatant profligacy, to secure the Ring for one of their own. Francesco della Rovere had ascended the Papal throne as Sixtus IV, and it was his death which had coincided with William’s arrival in Rome.
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