Ottoman

by Christopher Nicole

  In these circumstances, it was surprising that the election had been effected so quickly, but Borgia had here revealed considerable statecraft. The ruling spirit behind the rival family was Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere, the same who had contemptuously turned William away from the Vatican (a man every bit as ambitious and forceful as Borgia himself — and destined to become famous as Pope Julius II). But in 1484, at just over forty, Giuliano della Rovere felt himself somewhat young to tilt for the supreme office. This did not mean that he was prepared to let the Papacy go to Borgia. Instead he sought out a suitable candidate among those cardinals in his pay: Giovanni Battista Cibò, who had duly taken the name of Innocent VIII.

  Thus, it seemed, he had managed to exclude Borgia yet again, but he had made a grave mistake — as the Vice-Chancellor well knew. Cibò might have been in della Rovere’s pay, but he was even more venal and corrupt than Borgia himself, and now he regarded the papacy as very much his oyster. To della Rovere’s fury, he quickly began to show more regard for Borgia, a man who shared his tastes and cupidity, than for his erstwhile patron.

  Soon Cibò was openly acknowledging both his mistress and his illegitimate children — the first pope ever to do so. In this he was but aping Borgia, as did his entertainments which never lacked half a dozen pretty women anxious to flirt with the Pontiff.

  But, more than anything else, Innocent craved money. Thus it was that, by nipping in when della Rovere had wanted only to reject any kind of a deal with Constantinople, Borgia had scored a triumph. The Pope was in entire agreement with the Cardinal in judging that Djem was a man out of whom a great deal of profit could be made.

  All depended upon Bayazid’s reaction to these new circumstances.

  *

  For William Hawkwood it was again a matter of waiting. By the spring of 1485 he had been absent from Constantinople for three years, and the pain of his bereavement was beginning to fade. The memory of Aimée however remained as bright as ever — that triumph of beauty and wealth which had only narrowly escaped him, and was the more to be regretted for that. So much so that one night in his cups with Rodrigo Borgia, being unused to wine, he poured out to the Cardinal the story of his life and his misfortunes.

  Borgia seemed to listen with sympathy. “My poor young friend,” he said when William had finished. “How my heart bleeds for you. We shall have to see what can be done.”

  “I am afraid there is nothing that can be done, Your Eminence,” William moaned. “She is a great heiress, and will by now have been betrothed to some French nobleman. Perhaps she is even married.”

  “There is always something that can be done,” Borgia insisted. “You may leave that to me. We must at least endeavour to discover what has become of the girl… But my heart bleeds even more to think of you living almost in chastity. Tell me about the harems, the seraglios, about the life those beautiful captive maidens enjoy.”

  William knew next to nothing about life in a harem, but he realised the Cardinal wanted to be entertained, so he garnished his account with every spicy anecdote he had ever picked up, true or false.

  Borgia was delighted. “And have you yet sampled our Roman womanhood?” he inquired.

  “I know nothing of them.”

  “And you a terrible Turk? This I propose to rectify at the very first instance. I am holding a gathering at my country house at Tivoli in a week’s time. You must attend, and have no fear. I will send an escort for you and you will spend several days there. Tivoli is a delightful spot, and I will guarantee you delightful company.”

  Well, why not? William wondered. For three years he had been under the most extreme pressure — and for those three years he had lived like a monk. He would be a fool not to accept whatever choice morsel the Cardinal threw his way.

  And by the following week he was in the right mood to enjoy himself, for Hussain had at last returned from Constantinople. All was well, for the Sultan seemed pleased at the doggedness with which William was following Djem around Europe.

  “As to an understanding with His Holiness,” wrote the Vizier, “the Padishah considers this to be in the best interests of us all. You are instructed to open negotiations on these lines, providing that it is understood that the surrender of Prince Djem into your custody is a prerequisite. The Padishah understands that some kind of ransom is appropriate, and authorises you to offer His Holiness the sum of five hundred thousand crowns upon delivery of the prince, or his body, into your keeping.”

  Here was a promise of instant success. So William took the road to Tivoli in the best of humours.

  ***

  Set in the foothills of the Apennines, some twenty miles east of Rome, Tivoli was indeed a delightful spot. It had been chosen by wealthy Romans as an ideal place in which to take their leisure ever since the days of the Emperor Hadrian — the ruins of whose villa could still be visited by the curious.

  Hadrian’s villa was a place of cool ponds and running water, reminiscent of Brusa. But it paled into insignificance beside the villa of Rodrigo Borgia, some distance away, with its white marble floors and huge reception rooms hung with paintings by the Italian masters Botticelli and Perugino, and where the ceilings were decorated with frescos of naked nymphs and cupids frolicking, or worse.

  Brought up in Muslim purity, William had been astonished in Venice and in Paris by such constant reproductions of the human form, but never had he seen such a display of indecency.

  Greeted most warmly by Borgia, he was embraced on telling the Cardinal the good news from Constantinople. William was then ushered into guest apartments that were the last word in luxury. After the simple Turkish divans, he had been struck with wonder at the great tester beds with their cavernous soft mattresses, which were used by the Western aristocracy, but he had never come across anything quite so luxurious as here.

  Anxious pageboys waited to attend him, and there was even a bevy of girls standing by his bath, simpering gracefully. These he dismissed, but his male attendants were embarrassing enough. When he had been bathed every day in Turkey, the eunuchs had kept their thoughts to themselves. But these boys constantly chattered about him in rapid Italian, so that he could gather only the gist of what they were saying. What he did hear made him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

  Then he allowed them to dress him in the very finest silken hose and satin doublet, silver-hilted misericord at his belt, the drooping cap known as a chaperon on his head.

  He thought he made a very handsome fellow, and so did Borgia and his guests, who applauded his entrance. Some of the men he had met before, but the women were entirely strange to him. Although expensively dressed, their flashing eyes and suggestive movements indicated that they were certainly not ladies.

  Even more to his surprise, present at the dinner were the two lovely children he remembered from his first meeting with Borgia. The little girl offered him her hand to kiss, and said in a high voice, “You are a very handsome man, signore.”

  “There,” Borgia said. “Your future is assured. My dearest Lucrezia has given you her mark of approval.”

  *

  The supper commenced about ten o’clock and lasted until two in the morning. Dish followed dish, and an enormous amount of wine was provided. Unused as he still was to drinking alcohol, Hawkwood’s head soon began to spin, but it cleared soon enough when Borgia suddenly stood up and hurled a bag out into the middle of the floor beyond the dais. For the bag burst open and gold coins scattered in every direction.

  The guests clapped their hands in anticipation, and several of the women stood up.

  “No hands,’ the Cardinal declared. “And no clothes, either.”

  To William’s amazement the female guests, without hesitation, began removing their clothing at a great rate. When they were entirely naked, they offered their wrists to the waiting servants, who tied each pair of hands behind the owner’s shapely back with silken cords. The women then ran down into the main body of the hall, fell to their knees, and attempted to pick up coins with
their teeth.

  The entire room seemed to fill with surging buttocks, trembling breasts, flexing muscles in belly and thigh, flailing hair…as well as occasional screams, for the women were not above biting one another to repel a rival for one particular coin.

  William looked over at Borgia and found the Cardinal smiling, widely.

  “They are all whores in any event.”

  As one of the girls succeeded in getting a coin between her teeth, she ran back to the table and spat the coin on to the cloth in front of William.

  “I make you my keeper, monsignore,” she said and darted back into the fray.

  Borgia clapped his hands. “There! You have made another conquest. Margherita is a young woman of many parts.”

  William could not resist glancing at the little girl, to see her reactions to the obscenity in front of her. She was leaning forward, eyes glowing, her hands clapping together whenever some girl was successful.

  Everyone else in the room was equally excited, each applauding his own particular favourite — for each girl had chosen a custodian for her wealth. His Margherita was indeed a great success, for she had deposited five gold coins in front of him before Borgia stood up and called a halt.

  “Enough!” he shouted. “Let the jousting begin.”

  William had no idea what was to happen next, but now every man was on his feet, so he followed their example. Meanwhile servants moved amongst the girls, releasing their wrists. To his astonishment Margherita now ran back up towards him, her entire body a jiggle of pulsating flesh and streaming hair, leapt on to the table, scattering valuable plate and utensils, and before he could protest or defend himself she had mounted his shoulders, sitting with her legs in front and her ankles tightly crossed, her naked pubes pressed into the back of his neck.

  To the fray, monsignore!” she shouted. “To the fray!”

  All the other men were by now mounted, saving only the Cardinal, who continued to laugh and clap his hands — as did his daughter. Having each secured a mount, the girls were urging them forward into the main hall, where a tremendous battle commenced, the object of each being to unseat every other girl.

  As William caught hold of Margherita’s thighs, the better to hold her in position, he came face to face with a red-faced priest while the two girls on their shoulders wrestled as if their lives depended on it. Being a head taller than the Italian, William found his own face repeatedly banging into the naked belly of the other’s rider, which produced loud shrieks, whether of pleasure or pain he could not tell; until she gave a louder shriek still, and slipped backwards, losing her grip on her mount, and pulling him heavily to the floor.

  “Next!” screamed Margherita in joy, flailing with sweat-moist arms and breasts, her thighs still tight around William’s neck.

  They engaged another — and then another. With William’s size and Margherita’s eagerness, none could stand before them long. Suddenly the bizarre tourney was over, and William alone stood upright in the midst of scattered, panting bodies. He felt more aroused than ever before in his life.

  “The victor!” Borgia was on his feet. “To the victor the spoils!”

  There was another bag of gold coin on the table, and this the Cardinal held out. Margherita hastily grabbed it and hugged it to her breasts. The girl still clinging to his shoulders, William was urged from the room.

  “Your clothes!” he said, checking.

  “I have no use for clothes, monsignore,” she laughed. “Not now, at least.”

  Still aflame, he carried her into his bedchamber and dismissed his servants. Then he laid her on the bed, where she immediately arranged herself with legs spread wide, her body aglow with sweat.

  She was not strictly a beauty, but she was most attractive. And different for him, too. Like all Turkish women, Sereta had shaved her pubes. Now, as he looked at Margherita, William realised he had never supposed an untamed growth could be so luxuriant. He tore at his clothes, rolled down his hose and ran at her.

  She gazed at him for a brief moment, then suddenly sat up with the most piercing shriek. “A Jew!” she screamed. “My God, a Jew!’

  He reached for her, but she slipped under his arm and ran for the door.

  “A Jew!” she screamed again. “I am beset by a Jew!”

  Servants appeared in the corridor, but she burst through them into the dining hall, where Borgia and the other guests were still gathered.

  “A Jew!” she shrieked. “Save me!”

  William had set off in pursuit, but checked himself as he remembered his nudity. Instead he retreated into the bedroom in confusion. A minute later he gazed up at the Cardinal, who appeared at the door dragging Margherita by the wrist. The girl was attempting to hold back.

  “What is all this?” Borgia demanded, staring at William. “By Our Lady…are you a Jew? You gave me to understand you were a Christian.”

  “Of course I am not a Jew!” he almost howled.

  “But you are circumcised!”

  “It is the Turkish custom, Your Eminence.”

  “The devil! Well, then, you silly girl, there it is waiting for you. I’ll wager you enjoy it.” He pushed her towards the bed.

  “You command me, my Lord Cardinal?” she asked.

  “Indeed I do. Enjoy her, William. I am very glad that you are no Jew. Otherwise I would have had to burn you at the stake for contaminating a Christian woman.”

  William was sufficiently taken aback by this parting shot to lose a great deal of his ardour, but Margherita was now once again filled with energy and did not leave his bed until dawn, by which time they were both sated and exhausted.

  She then departed with half the bag of gold, having spent perhaps the most profitable as well as the most enjoyable evening of her young life.

  William would cheerfully have spent the remainder of the day in bed, for he now had a painful headache and an equally painful conscience. He could not imagine what his father would say were he to learn of the events of the previous night. But before long he was summoned to join the Cardinal, whom he found walking in his private garden, pausing now and then to sniff a bloom, and looking the most contented man in the world.

  If cardinals have no consciences, why should I? William pondered.

  “My dear boy,” Borgia said. “How good to see you. I trust you did not sleep too soundly?”

  “I do not think I slept at all, Your Eminence.”

  Borgia chuckled. “A lively girl, Margherita. But now is the time to put thoughts of the flesh from our minds. Come walk with me.”

  William fell into step beside the red-robed figure.

  “We have not had an opportunity to discuss your master’s response to my overtures,” Borgia remarked.

  “As I have told Your Eminence, the Padishah’s response has been wholly favourable.”

  “Indeed, indeed,” Borgia agreed. “I am most gratified. However…there are problems.”

  William frowned and waited.

  “As you are aware, I have a rival in my claims in the ear of His Holiness,” Borgia said.

  “Cardinal della Rovere.”

  “The same. Our new pontiff has made the mistake of mentioning our plans to della Rovere, who strongly opposes them. Indeed he is even attempting to persuade His Holiness to proclaim a crusade against the Turk. The idea offers a strong appeal, of course, since every crusader must contribute some of his wealth to the Holy See. It stands to reason, therefore, that della Rovere is totally against our releasing Prince Djem into your custody.”

  “Then we are entirely undone. My God, if a crusade is proclaimed against the Padishah…”

  “It would be meaningless, William. I give you my word on that. Tell your master so. That is the least of our problems. It is Djem in whom you are interested, and in whom I am interested on your behalf. I had assumed that the offer of five hundred thousand crowns would be sufficient to sway His Holiness. Alas, since he has been listening to the despicable fellow della Rovere, he has become full of pity and declare
s that it goes against his conscience to abandon a prince who approached him as a suppliant.”

  “I had the impression Prince Djem, far from being a suppliant, had been sold to the previous Pope by the French,” William responded angrily, conceiving that once again all his card castles were crumbling to the ground.

  “He is nonetheless a suppliant,” Borgia pointed out. “I am afraid it will be necessary for us to pursue our plans with the utmost caution, remembering always that Innocent is an elderly fellow, and cannot be expected to live long. As I see the situation, he may indeed proclaim a crusade against the Turk — but I have promised that will amount to nought. He will also seek to retain Djem for his own ends, but at least you will be certain that the prince is securely incarcerated inside the Vatican. And I can give you my word that once I become Pope, Djem will be yours.”

  William sighed. “Then I must accept your advice, Your Eminence. I shall write to the Padishah as soon as I return to Rome, and put this new situation before him. I can only hope and pray that he will understand it.”

  “His chief desire is to prevent Djem ever returning to Turkey to dispute his inheritance. You and I are both working to make sure that he never does, so I cannot see that Bayazid will be aggrieved about this new situation.”

  “I am sure you are right, Your Eminence. But I think I had better go back to Rome and pen that letter immediately.”

  “Indeed. Before you go, however, there is the matter of the prince’s income to be discussed.”

  William stared at him.

  “Obviously the Sultan cannot expect the Vatican treasury to support his brother indefinitely,” Borgia pointed out. “Without an adequate income, it may not be possible for us to properly guard the prince at all times. I am sure you will agree it would be a catastrophe were he ever to escape.”