Blood & Beauty

by Sarah Dunant

  ‘Come – let me see my burst of sunshine’ was how her father would greet her when he arrived back weary from whatever tasks God had given to him. What else could she do but smile for him?

  Cesare had once put it differently. It was before he was sent away to study and already there had been a fierce rivalry between him and Juan: Cesare provoking with quick clever words and Juan responding with fists, a fight that the younger would always lose. Adriana would deal with Juan, a mix of comfort and bribery, soothing his pride along with his bruised flesh. But Cesare, even in victory, held on to the anger for longer, as if it was a splinter festering in the skin. At such times she would go and sit with him, slipping her hand into his and waiting, like a dog at his side, until he was ready to notice her. Which he always did.

  ‘I think there is some alchemy inside you, ’Crezia,’ he had said as she coaxed a smile from him. ‘Where others have poison, you have balm.’

  Except she seems less full of balm these days, more plagued by doubt. Recently she has started bleeding and with it have come storms of feeling over which she has no control: a sudden crossness, or impatience with the world, tears for no reason. Even her skin, once down-smooth, erupts at times, as if these small fountains of pus are the only way to let such things out. Adriana follows her round the house with ointments and special drinks, bitter to the taste. It will pass, she says. It will pass. I know that, thinks Lucrezia, even more angrily. Why does everybody still take me for a child? In the convent such things were happening all the time. There were days in the month when the smell of stale blood was everywhere, swirling through the cloisters, leaking out around them in the chapel at night.

  It had not been compulsory for the boarders to attend the night service of Matins. The convent was their school rather than their life and they had privileges that the novices and nuns were denied. Lucrezia, however, had always had trouble sleeping. When Cesare left home, she had substituted God as her companion in the night, so she had found it comforting to be with others who were even more in love with Him. It was a venerable place, San Sisto, centuries old and close to the site where St Paul himself had been martyred, the abbess recounted when she addressed them during those first days. If they emptied themselves in preparation for God’s grace they might catch the echo of his last prayers. The convent was filled with the daughters of Rome’s most powerful families, all of them rich, most of them waiting for husbands either promised or yet to be decided. They would exchange smuggled trinkets or sweetmeats, whispering and laughing in the night, tales of love and scandal. It was there, when the gossip turned cruel, as it must between young girls, that she was made aware of some scandal in her father’s household; the hint of sin in her own birth. The nun in charge of the boarders had found her in tears, so inconsolable that she had taken her to the abbess.

  ‘You are not to let such things muddy the love of God that I know you have, Lucrezia,’ she had said, with such kindness and passion that Lucrezia had been hard pressed not to fall in love with her too. ‘He understands everything and His capacity for forgiveness is boundless.’

  It is only recently that she wonders how many other young boarders might have needed the abbess’s same words of comfort.

  The house has fallen silent. She is wide awake now. It is close to dawn: she can feel it in the air. She is struggling with other thoughts, and it would be good to be more directly in God’s presence when she addresses Him. She slips from her bed and, lighting the taper, braves the darkness to make her way downstairs.

  In the grainy light, Alexander, deep in thought, waddling his way back to the Vatican through the little house chapel, is confronted by what seems to be a ghostly floating figure at the altar. He, who has never in his life seen anything that is not flesh and blood, registers a rush in his gut, a sudden fear of the incorporeal; a visitation for a man who has been making passionate and unrepentant love to someone else’s wife.

  The figure turns.

  ‘Lucrezia!’

  ‘Papà! You startled me!’

  ‘What are you doing here, child?’

  ‘Ah – I… I am praying.’

  He gives a little laugh to recover himself. He should have known. For years Lucrezia has been the only one of his children who would spend time in church of her own volition. She rises from her seat and he comes to greet her. He takes her face in his hands, studying her in the half-light. Her skin is moist and there are small shadows under her eyes, a hint of the adult that she will soon become, though the cherub double chin remains, reminding him of the baby who had so torn at his heartstrings.

  ‘It is barely light, carissima. Could you not sleep?’

  ‘You forget, Papà. In the convent we were up well before dawn. I woke… well, I woke early today. And I… I needed to talk to someone.’

  She glances towards the figure of Christ.

  ‘Ah. Do you think your pope would do instead?’

  She smiles and he settles himself next to her. There is a faint sour smell about him, the remains of passion. There has been no time for him to wash. They are both aware of it. He pats her hand fondly. It is too late for it to be any different.

  They sit for a moment contemplating the altar: the crucifix with its emaciated body, head hung low in deathly sorrow. Cardinal Zeno, who built the palace, prided himself in being a connoisseur of art and this muscular Christ, especially commissioned for the space, looks real enough for one to take into one’s arms. To the side stands an older, wooden statue of Mary, heavy folds of cloth falling to her feet and pinpricks of woodworm in the rosy glow of her cheeks. He must get someone to come in and look at it. It does not do to have Our Lady pock-marked.

  ‘How is Giulia?’

  ‘She is… she is well.’ The pregnancy is still a secret in the house. At least he believes it is so. ‘I was late with business, so arrived when you were in bed.’

  She nods, as if to say she understands and that it does not need explaining.

  ‘So, tell me what troubles you, you who must be one of the most fortunate young women in Christendom.’

  ‘Oh, I know that, Papà. I remember it every day in my prayers. But still…’ She takes a breath. If God has brought them together in the chapel, then surely He means it to be talked about. ‘Well, I am thinking about my husband.’

  ‘Your husband! Ha! It seems everyone wants to talk about husbands tonight.’ He gives a little shake of the head. ‘And what is it in particular you are thinking?’

  She glances at him to try and read his mood better.

  He squeezes her arm. ‘Come, tell me. I am your father and I love you dearly.’

  ‘I am wondering if he will come from Milan or Naples.’

  ‘Milan or Naples? What gives you that idea?’

  ‘Because I have heard… because I have heard that the Spanish marriage to Count d’Aversa will not take place now.’

  ‘From whom have you heard this?’

  ‘Oh Papà, people talk. I know that we, well… now that you are Pope things are different. We are now allied to the Sforzas in Milan, yes? Because they helped you in some way. And to keep an alliance in place you need a marriage. But Adriana says – well, not to me, but I heard her talking to others – that Milan and Naples are in disagreement with each other and so I thought that – that you must keep a balance between the two of them which means Naples needs an allegiance too…’

  ‘My, my.’ Alexander squeezes her hand, laughing. ‘Clearly you are wasted in study and sewing, Donna Lucrezia. You should be in the Pope’s Consistory. You understand more about things than most who sit there.’

  ‘That is not true,’ she says indignantly. ‘I think that many people understand more about this than me. Really! Two days ago Aunt Adriana turned away a messenger from Count d’Aversa. I could hardly not know, since he made a great fuss at being refused. She said it was on your orders.’

  ‘What else did your aunt say?’ he says, trying to keep the amusement from his voice.

  ‘Nothing. But we have m
any visitors.’

  And gossip springs out from between the stitches in their cloth. Sometimes he thinks it is the only real occupation of Rome, listening to whispers: that for all the banking tables and the tanners’ yards, the economy is driven more by chatter than commerce. No wonder they do not grow as rich as Venice or Florence.

  ‘People pay suit to us to get close to you. We had the Prince of Ferrara here a few weeks ago! Alfonso d’Este. His father wants a cardinal’s hat for his younger son. Did you know that? We took his gifts but made no promises. We are most proper. Aunt Adriana sees to that. She is very good at it, Papà. Better than Giulia or I.’

  As befits a woman who has negotiated the cuckolding of her son for the pleasure of her cousin. Ah. It seems he is to be pursued by such thoughts tonight. Well, what is done is done. Orsino has not fared badly from it. The man wants for nothing. Except perhaps for his wife. He can almost hear Giulia’s voice again in the darkness.

  ‘I am surprised young Alfonso didn’t ask for your hand in marriage while he was at it.’

  ‘Are you angry, Papà?’

  ‘No, no, child. I was thinking of something else.’

  ‘I am sorry if this is difficult,’ she says with sudden intensity. ‘But it seems to me that if I am old enough to be married then I am old enough to know these things.’

  He takes her hand, white as a dove’s feathers. In Spain, under the grill of a cruel sun, they treasure the beauty of pale hands over all else. She would have been so admired in Valencia. But he needs – and he wants – her here now.

  ‘Very well,’ he says more seriously, making a decision to tell her the truth. ‘It is likely that you will not be married to Don Gaspar d’Aversa.’

  ‘But we are betrothed! What will he say when he finds out?’

  ‘He will shout bloody murder. Most of Rome can hear him taking in the breath already. But he will settle for it.’

  ‘So will it be Milan or Naples?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure. We are still talking.’ He smiles. ‘Perhaps our holy mother can help us with the answer.’

  ‘I didn’t have time to talk to her properly. Though… though I know another way to find out.’ She is eager. Since he has become everyone’s father he has less time to be hers alone. And the pleasures of mutual adoration are – well… mutual.

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘You take a bowl of water, and you draw a circle around it in wax or with the black soot from candles.’ Her eyes are shining now. ‘And then you say some words and stir the surface with a wooden spoon and as it settles you look into it.’ She stops, for effect. ‘And there you will see the face of your husband.’

  He must not laugh. ‘I think it unwise for the daughter of a pope to conjure up the devil to see her own future.’

  ‘Oh, it is not the devil, Papà. Far from it. The words are all good words.’

  ‘Nevertheless, such superstitions are forbidden. Who taught you them?’

  ‘I… er, no one,’ she says weakly. ‘I mean, it is only a game.’

  ‘Not a game that the abbess of San Sisto would approve of, I am sure.’

  ‘But the convent is where I learned it! The boarders do it all the time.’ Now it is her turn to squeeze his arm. ‘The abbess didn’t know, of course. Ah, you have no idea how boring it can be sometimes with so much worship and so little fun.’

  Nuns conjuring up spirits to divine the future! If his life was not so busy pulling the fangs from poisonous snakes in every corner, he might fruitfully add the conduct of convents to the work of being the Pope. Well, it can wait. He looks back into her dancing eyes. Love games. The puppy fat is not simply physical. At thirteen, she is still too coddled, too young for marriage. Whoever the man, there will be a clause on delayed consummation written into the contract.

  But he will not come from Spain, that much is clear. Is she disappointed?

  She considers the question. ‘I used to want to live there. You and Aunt Adriana told such stories of it: about Valencia, how the sea shone like diamonds under the sun and the breezes came through the town and there were so many churches and palaces and the people there were so… so fiery and friendly and fine. But I want to stay here now. We are one of the great families of Italy. Each of us has a part to play in our future and marriage is the strongest knot that can be tied,’ she says, as if someone had taught her the words along with her catechism.

  ‘Bravo. Spoken like a Borgia. Don’t worry yourself further. Once it is decided you will be told.’

  She rises. ‘Papà. One favour.’

  Anything, he thinks. Then remembers. ‘Perhaps I had better hear it first.’

  ‘I don’t want a really old husband. Juan says they dribble and pass water in the bed.’

  ‘Does he indeed?’ He stares at her.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think he means you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And one more thing…’

  He sighs in an exaggerated manner, as if this is far too great a burden to be borne. They both smile.

  ‘Bring Cesare home soon. He pines for Rome. I can feel it underneath the words.’

  ‘He will be here well in time for your wedding. That I promise you.’

  CHAPTER 6

  The concealed route between the two palaces brings him out into the booming darkness of the Vatican chapel.

  He moves by a Vatican guard, whose job is to make sure the lamp that burns constantly at the altar does not go out. Across the nave, another guard sits, watching the watchman lest he should fall asleep. They both look up, then down as their pope passes. They know what they are supposed not to see.

  With his own protected candle Alexander crosses into the centre of the chapel, feeling the rise of the marble under his slippered feet as it moves towards the transenna. Like many men who live inside power, he has grown used to its trappings. When his own palace was finished twenty years ago, for the first weeks he had wandered around it like a child entranced by the wonder of a new plaything. Yet his mind soon moved back to business. The assessing of petitions, the wording of agreements, the manipulation of men and money, these are the things that absorbed him, while the vaulted ceilings, tapestries and gold plate faded rapidly into the background. Wealth was necessary for status, for the respect and admiration it engendered in others. The infinite niceties of taste, however, he leaves to the more foppish of his fellow cardinals.

  But not even he can walk through this newest grand chapel without appreciating its splendour and ambition. What a sly old fox Sixtus IV had been. While Rome was a city full of ancient buildings big enough to make men dizzy, Sixtus had understood that the shock of the new has its own power to impress. In the ten years since its completion, Alexander has watched the Sistine Chapel work its magic on everyone who enters: how their mouths fall open as they register the scale – the dimensions of the temple of Solomon is how it was planned, how the luminosity of the frescos of Moses and Christ bring an involuntary smile to their lips, making them crane their necks upwards, past the painted figures of the popes into the vast vaulted ceiling, the brilliant blue of a night sky peppered by stars.

  He too now gazes up into the darkness. Oh, yes. It is a clever thing to make a man feel so small and humble against such majesty. Leave the wonder of a bird wing or the simplicity of the blade of grass to the saints and the hermits. Most men need to be overwhelmed in order to appreciate the divine. That is Rome’s job. Every good pope leaves something hewn in stone and marble behind him. He had witnessed that as he stood in the wings waiting for his turn: how the fever of construction took hold of the most modest as well as the most arrogant of men. But of all of them, Sixtus had been the most surprising. Here was a man who began life as a Franciscan, espousing poverty and writing pious treatises. Yet barely had the papal crown been lowered on to his humble head than he was issuing instructions to architects and engineers, growing misty-eyed at the prospect of the great chapel that would bear his name. The mounting bills had had him, Rodrigo Borgia, Vice-Chanc
ellor, turning somersaults and selling a thousand futures of pardons to find the money. Not satisfied with that, Sixtus had rebuilt churches, his own private altar in the crumbling St Peter’s. Also a new bridge over the Tiber to bear his name. Such was his building mania that it had been uncertain as to whether he would live long enough to see this, his major project, finished. The great opening mass of the Assumption had taken place less than a year before Sixtus died and he had already been more the shell than the man.

  How well Alexander remembers that ceremony: the benches groaning with dignitaries from all over Christendom, the air thick with incense, the great papal choir pouring out jubilation from its gallery stalls, so that the voices seem to descend from heaven itself. It had gone on for so long that most of the older ones fell asleep. But not him. No. He was too busy noting every detail. He had become fixated on the frescos on the upper walls; not so much the beauty of Ghirlandaio and Botticelli but the diplomatic daring on the part of Sixtus, who had managed to buy their services from Florence so soon after he had masterminded a conspiracy against the city. The intention had been to wipe out the Medici and replace them with, among others, his own nephew. Where was the pious Franciscan preacher then? Had it worked, he himself would not be standing here now. Instead he would have lived and died a wealthy vice-chancellor, blocked from higher office by the della Rovere family, which would have run the conclave as well as the state of Florence.

  No, Sixtus, for all his pious prayers, had been in thrall to another kind of immortality: that of his family. It is a passion that Alexander understands through every fibre of his being.

  Now it is the Borgias’ turn. For all the fancy bronze sculpture of Sixtus’s tomb, the man himself is breeding worms like any other corpse, while he, Rodrigo Borgia, holds the reins of power. Yes, there will be artistic and religious works to mark his papacy. The ceiling of the great chapel remains a challenge, but for now he is too busy with the city fortress and his new apartments and their decoration. But in terms of the immediate future, his priorities are clear. For the Borgias to achieve the next rung of immortality the bricks and mortar must be human ones: sons and daughters, cousins, nieces and nephews, each one bringing another silken thread of loyalty and influence into the web of family, secure and powerful enough to run Rome and beyond.