Fiammetta de’ Michaelis’s affair with Cesare Borgia flourished in Rome during the long hot summer of 1500. Despite his increasing reputation as an ogre, Cesare was still capable of great charm. In this aspect, as in many others, he was very much his father’s son. Cesare certainly won Fiammetta’s heart – to such an extent that their relationship would remain (at least in her eyes) the most profound in her life. She may have taken important cardinals and scions of aristocratic families as her lovers, both before and after her affair with Cesare Borgia, but she would remain forever attached to her fond memories of him. When she died, twelve years later, she would describe her will as: ‘the Testament of la Fiammetta of il Valentino’.*
Cesare Borgia may have been discreet when it came to his nighttime activities, but the opposite was true of his daytime pursuits. He was determined to remain at the peak of physical condition in readiness for his second campaign in the Romagna, and regularly entertained the populace with his training exercises. As well as his usual daily regime of vaulting horses (and the occasional reluctant mule), he also went on regular hunting trips in the environs of Rome. However, most popular of all were the bullfights, which he staged in the piazza in front of St Peter’s – the uniquely Spanish tradition which had been instigated by his father on his accession to the papal throne. Alexander VI continued to enjoy this pastime and would regularly watch Cesare’s exploits from the balcony of St Peter’s. At one of Cesare’s bullfights, held on 24 June, according to the Venetian ambassador he
killed seven wild bulls, fighting on horseback in the Spanish style, and he cut off the head of one with his first stroke, a thing which seemed great to all Rome.
Cesare Borgia was evidently establishing himself as a star entertainer with the crowds. These audiences were, of course, swelled by the teeming hordes of Jubilee pilgrims – who had probably not travelled all the way to St Peter’s in the expectation of observing the Pope watching his twenty-four-year-old son bullfighting. Cesare’s daring exploits in the bullring provide yet another example of Machiavelli’s ‘Virtù’ in its most powerful and manly sense. Fighting a wild bull, whether on foot in the modern more choreographed fashion, or on horseback in the more rough and ready ancient style, was always a dangerous, sometimes fatal, business for the fighter.*
Yet as always, wherever there was Virtù there was also Fortuna, which could strike at any moment, and in the most unexpected fashion. Not long after Cesare’s daring feat in the Vatican bullring, Fortuna manifested itself in what for Alexander VI was a most telling manner. Whilst the Pope was sitting on the balcony of St Peter’s watching his son bullfighting, an iron lantern fell from the bell tower above and crashed on to the balcony at the Pope’s feet. The superstitious Alexander VI regarded this as an omen, and decided that from this time on he would forgo his afternoon pleasure of watching his son bullfighting. Though, hardly had he done this than Fortuna struck again. The following afternoon, instead of watching his son, the Pope was engaged in a meeting inside the Vatican. Seated beneath the canopy of the papal throne on its raised dais he was discussing political matters with the Spanish Cardinal Bernardino Lopez, who acted as ambassador for Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain. Also present was the papal ‘secret chamberlain’ Gaspare Poto, who was in all probability taking down the details of the meeting, whose subject matter, as we shall see, almost certainly involved deeply sensitive political negotiations. As sometimes happens during the long Roman summers, the stiflingly hot afternoon was unexpectedly transformed by a sudden ferocious thunderstorm, complete with gusts of high wind and hailstones. Such was the power of the storm that a chimney was dislodged from the Vatican roof and crashed through the ceiling of the room above where Alexander VI was conducting his meeting, in the process killing three people. This crash was so violent that it then caused the floor to collapse into the papal chamber below. At this very moment, Cardinal Lopez and Secretary Poto were rushing to close the windows against the torrent of wind and rain.
The throne where the Pope was seated was engulfed in a heap of tumbling masonry. Cardinal Lopez and Secretary Poto looked on aghast. The Pope had been crushed to death before their eyes. In a panic they shouted to the guards outside the door that the Pope had been killed. The guards burst into the room and at once began pulling at the large heap of fallen stonework. To their astonishment they found the Pope still sitting on his throne, obscured by a thick cloud of dust. A heavy roof beam had fallen across the canopy of the papal throne and Alexander VI had been knocked unconscious. His head was bleeding, his body battered, his arms and hands grazed – but he was alive!
The story of this accident immediately swept through the city and beyond – soon to be followed by rumours that Alexander VI was in fact dead. Such news, spreading from Rome as speedily as it did, could have had serious repercussions. In order to set the record straight, as soon as Alexander VI was sufficiently recovered he summoned the Venetian ambassador. If news of the Pope’s death reached Venice, the ruling Signoria would immediately understand the serious implications of this fatal accident. Alexander VI’s crusade would be put on hold, maybe even postponed indefinitely. And there would be no reason to trust any invasion Cesare Borgia might launch into the Romagna. The Venetian ambassador Paolo Capello arrived to find Alexander VI sitting up in his bed ‘devotedly nursed by Lucrezia and her ladies, one of whom he describes as “his favourite”’. The sixty-nine-year-old Pope was undeniably alive and in full possession of his faculties.
This time Alexander VI’s superstition worked the other way. What had just happened was no warning: this was a sign that he was destined by Fortuna to be saved. All his plans would go ahead: his mission would be realized. Cesare would be despatched to the Romagna as soon as his army was gathered; meanwhile, the widespread raising of funds for the crusade would continue. Likewise, the delicate matter that he had been discussing with Cardinal Lopez at the time of the accident would also proceed. Spain had raised serious objections to Louis XII’s intention to take over Naples. The Kingdom of Naples had long been close to – and indeed often a possession of – Spain itself. Alexander VI had been in the midst of reassuring the ambassador for Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain that he would persuade Louis XII to share Naples between Spain and France. This would certainly be a difficult task, but the Pope felt sure that, given sufficient diplomatic manoeuvring, it could be achieved.
At the same time Cesare Borgia was assembling his trusted military commanders in Rome, working out in secret the tactics he had in mind for his forthcoming second Romagna campaign. Alexander VI had engineered a form of rapprochement with the Orsini family, who wished to protect their ancestral estates north of Rome, which were technically part of the Papal Territories. The senior member of the family in Rome was Cardinal Giambattista Orsini, who remained wary of Alexander VI, but nonetheless supported him at the consistories, and was regarded as his ally by the other members of the College of Cardinals. Cardinal Giambattista’s relations included the brothers Giulio and Paolo Orsini, who were both talented condottieri. They, too, wished to protect their lands outside Rome, and also to aid Cesare Borgia in the expectation of gaining positions of power in the new, Borgia-held Romagna territories. Cesare Borgia had hinted that when the tyrants were deposed from their Romagna cities he would need loyal lords to take their place and run his new administration. Also informed of Borgia’s plans were a number of other condottieri and seasoned commanders, mostly unsavoury characters whose loyalty he felt he could rely upon as it was in their interests to support him. Vitelli Vitellozzo was an Italian commander who had served with Cesare Borgia on his first Romagna campaign; his ancestral mountain stronghold of Città di Castello lay vulnerably squeezed between the border of Florentine Tuscany and the Papal Territories. And Gian Paolo Baglioni of Perugia found himself in a similar situation. All of these were keen to ally themselves with Cesare Borgia, being in desperate need of cash to maintain their mercenary armies, which formed the only protection for their minor territories. Joining forces with
Cesare Borgia was to be their saving grace, and they listened attentively as the new Captain-General of the Papal Army outlined his proposed tactics. Needless to say, not all of Borgia’s secrets were revealed, and the fact that such secrets as he had confided in them did not leak out gave him confidence in the loyalty of his new commanders. Meanwhile, his closest and most trusted commanders remained his compatriots and long-term friends, the Spaniards Don Miguel da Corella and Ramiro de Lorqua. The latter remained at his post as governor of Forli in the Romagna, but was doubtless kept fully informed of Borgia’s intended tactics. Likewise, he held no secrets from Miguel da Corella, who was to all intents and purposes his second-in-command, and was seen constantly at his side during this period.
As previously indicated, Cesare Borgia’s feelings towards any man who became close to his sister Lucrezia were always distinctly touchy, to say the least. Now that Cesare found himself living back in Rome he had to put up with the company of Alfonso, Duke of Bisceglie, his sister’s much-loved husband and father of her child. Initially, Cesare had done his best to overcome what, in modern parlance, might best be described as his unconscious incestuous possessiveness towards his sister. But as the summer months dragged by, Cesare’s daily relationship with Alfonso of Bisceglie soon began to deteriorate. And then, as the summer wore on and Alexander VI’s diplomatic intrigues unfolded, it soon became clear that any friendship towards Naples was increasingly alien to Borgia strategy. Worse still, having Lucrezia married to a member of the Neapolitan royal family (even if illegitimate) was more than an embarrassment. Indeed, Alfonso now presented a direct impediment to Alexander VI’s negotiations with France and Spain over the division of Naples. How could the rulers of any of these nations trust a man whose favourite daughter was married to a son of the King of Naples?
Bearing in mind the Borgia reputation for ruthlessness, especially where their own interests were at stake, it comes as little surprise that on 15 July Alfonso of Bisceglie should become involved in ‘the beginning of another of the darkest Borgia mysteries’. That evening, as Alfonso was mounting the steps from the piazza towards St Peter’s, he was suddenly set upon by four men in masks wielding knives. In the words of Burchard: ‘He was gravely wounded in his head, right arm and leg, whilst his assailants escaped down the steps.’ Somehow Alfonso had managed to beat off his attackers and staggered into the Vatican. He was immediately carried to his bedchamber. As soon as news of this attack reached Alexander VI, he appeared deeply shocked and at once ordered Alfonso to be attended by the chief papal physician. When Lucrezia stumbled upon the scene she was so overcome that she collapsed to the floor unconscious.
The following day, Alfonso’s close friend, the Florentine Raphael Brandolinus Lippi, wrote in a letter:
Whose was the hand behind the assassins is still unknown. I will not, however, repeat which names are being voiced, because it is grave and perilous to entrust it to a letter.
Once again, gossip quickly began spreading through Rome. All were convinced that this was the doing of the Borgias. But which one? Alfonso de Bisceglie was a severe impediment to the political plans of Alexander VI. The Pope may have been constantly concerned for the happiness of his daughter, yet at the same time we have seen that he was perfectly willing to use her to further his political aims. Or, on the other hand, allow her marriage to thwart them, as had been the case with her previous husband. For his part, Cesare Borgia had both political and psychological reasons for wanting to be rid of Lucrezia’s Neapolitan husband. When questioned about the attack on Alfonso, he replied enigmatically: ‘I did not wound the duke, but if I had it would have been no more than he deserved.’
For several days Alfonso lay at death’s door. Lucrezia was distraught and remained at her husband’s bedside day and night, nursing him, wiping his fevered brow, in constant fear of him slipping away from her into death. The reactions of Alexander VI and Cesare Borgia showed similar concern, if in somewhat contradictory fashion. The Pope ordered that two armed members of the papal guard should remain posted outside Alfonso’s bedchamber at all times. Cesare Borgia, by contrast, gave the strictest orders that no one was to bear arms of any kind within the precincts of the Vatican.
Over the next month or so Alfonso began making a gradual recovery, nursed back to life by the loving Lucrezia, her friend Sancia (who was, of course, Alfonso’s sister) and their female attendants. Over the long hot days of August, Alfonso started to recover his strength and was soon able to walk unsteadily about his bedchamber, pausing to look out at the sunlit garden below the Borgia apartments. On one occasion, Alfonso is said to have asked Lucrezia for his crossbow, to see if he was strong enough to use it. He fired a bolt down from the window. At that very moment Cesare Borgia happened to be walking across the garden. The bolt missed Cesare. An ‘accident’ had been averted.
Some days later, during the afternoon of 18 August, Alfonso and Lucrezia’s maids, along with Alfonso’s uncle, the Neapolitan ambassador, could all be heard laughing together in Alfonso’s bedchamber. They were being entertained by the comic antics of Lucrezia’s favourite jester, her hunchback dwarf. Suddenly the door was smashed open and Miguel da Corella, the commander of Cesare Borgia’s personal guard, burst into the room accompanied by a group of armed men. The Neapolitan ambassador and the maids, along with the dwarf and two physicians, were all chased out of the room. Alfonso’s Florentine friend Raphael Lippi described how Lucrezia, ‘stupefied by the suddenness and violence of the act, shrieked at [Miguel da Corella], demanding to know how he dared commit such an offence before their eyes and in the presence of Alfonso’. For a moment, da Corella hesitated, overwhelmed by the sheer ferocity of Lucrezia’s reaction. He protested that he was simply following ‘the orders of another, but that they, if they wished, might go to the Pope, and it would be easy to obtain the release of the wanted man’.
Lucrezia and Sancia immediately ran down the corridor to find Alexander VI. According to Lippi: ‘The women returned from the Pope to find the door to Alfonso’s chamber barred by armed men.’ They were informed that Alfonso was dead. (It subsequently emerged that he had been strangled by Miguel da Corella.) ‘The women were terrified when they heard what had happened. Consumed with fear and grief, they shrieked and wailed, their cries resonating through the palace as one called on her husband and the other upon her brother.’ Burchard described how: ‘Immediately afterwards the dead man’s two physicians and his hunchback were arrested and taken to the Castel Sant’Angelo. But they were soon to be set free, owing to their innocence, a fact which was perfectly well known by those who had ordered their arrest.’*
This time it appears transparently obvious who was ultimately responsible for the deed. Yet certain niggling questions remain. Why would Cesare Borgia have ordered Alfonso to be murdered so publicly? Especially when such a sensational act was liable to upset all his father’s delicate diplomacy? One answer lies in the writings of Machiavelli, who would come to understand Cesare Borgia as well as any. When Machiavelli later came to discuss statecraft and leadership, he stressed that to be a successful prince, his subjects as well as his enemies should fear him. Such an act by Cesare Borgia would certainly have instilled fear in the hearts of all those who had dealings with him – friend and foe alike. It seems likely that this was not the first time he had resorted to such drastic measures (e.g. the disposal of his younger brother Juan, Duke of Gandia). And, as we shall see, it would certainly not be the last time he would be suspected of such a deed. Confirmation of Machiavelli’s intuition comes from no less than the Venetian ambassador, who wrote home: ‘All Rome trembles at this duke, that he may not have them killed.’ This is further supported by a coded letter despatched by the Florentine ambassador to his city’s ruling Signoria: ‘I pray your lordships to take this for your own information, and not to show it to others, for these [Borgias] are men to be watched, otherwise they have done a thousand villainies, and have spies everywhere.’
On the other hand, there remains the awkward qu
estion of Cesare’s close relationship with Lucrezia. Despite Cesare’s hand in the flight from Rome of her first husband Giovanni Sforza, and the blatant nature of his apparent guilt in the murder of her second husband, there is no denying that Lucrezia remained as close to Cesare as ever after these events had taken place. How could this have been so? As Meyer puts it: ‘If we could find the answer to that, it would take us to the heart of a connection that bound brother tightly to sister as long as both remained alive.’ Meyer also makes the clinching point that: ‘The intensity of that connection was obvious to all who observed the two of them together.’
Even so, how could Lucrezia possibly have forgiven Cesare for the murder of Alfonso, whom she evidently loved so deeply? And how could she have suspected anyone else of being responsible for this, when Cesare’s henchman Miguel da Corella was indisputably guilty of the murder? Another anomaly is presented by the behaviour of Lucrezia’s beloved father, Alexander VI himself. According to Lucrezia’s biographer Maria Bellonci: ‘Her tears soon got on the Pope’s nerves, for he was congenitally incapable of understanding why anybody who was twenty years old and had all her future before her could be so upset.’ In the end, he despatched Lucrezia and her retinue north to her castle at Nepi, presumably in the vain hope that her duties as governor of Spoleto might take her mind off things.
The Borgias Page 23