Blood & Beauty

by Sarah Dunant

  The apartments which Alexander has taken for himself are made up of a string of first-floor chambers at the corner of the existing palace, alongside a blunt, workmanlike new tower, mostly built, save for its crenellated battlements. When finished there will be both intimate and public spaces. Like much of the Borgia papacy, it is an accelerated process. For now the race is on to decorate the chambers in time for whatever wedding celebrations will be held there. The ceilings are already throbbing with embossed gold, picking out the Borgia crest, but the wall frescos will take longer and Pinturicchio, the Pope’s chosen artist, is working under strain. Not a state that brings out the best in him.

  ‘One chamber will be dedicated to the saints.’ As Alexander and Cesare sweep in, the clutch of apprentices busy over the worktables in the middle bow clumsily, then scatter to the edges. The Pope beams at them, the slanting sunlight through the open windows catching the white-gold trim of his cap. When they are given leave to visit their families they will talk of how His Holiness brings his own halo with him. ‘The centrepiece will be the disputation of Santa Caterina at the court of Alexandria, with our own Lucrezia as Caterina herself. Such a sweet saint she will make – Pinturicchio has already done the sketches. Now you are back he’ll want your likeness soon for someone or other, I am sure.

  ‘Meanwhile, this will be the room of the mysteries! And I will be up there. See?’ he says, his voice much louder now, as he points to covered scaffolding to the top of the generous lunette above the door, where the figure of Christ is already rising up against a bed of golden flame, cherub heads on sprouted wings dancing around him. Further down, the rest of the lunette is marked out in sinopia with the design of Christ’s tomb and figures of sleeping soldiers nearby. ‘There. To the left. See? I will be kneeling in my papal robes, bearing personal witness to the divine resurrection.’

  ‘Not unless you take time to sit for your portrait, you won’t.’ From behind the covered scaffolding a booming male voice calls out.

  ‘Ah, Pinturicchio. I wondered where you were,’ he bellows back. ‘Come, come down here. I have brought another peerlessly handsome face for your walls.’

  The cloth bulges as a figure starts clambering down the ladder. They watch as he emerges: a singularly ugly, misshapen little man with a head too big for his body and a knot of bone high on his right shoulder that makes one wonder how he is able to look up to appreciate, or more importantly assess, the power of his creations.

  ‘I had to pay a sack of money to get him. He left a della Rovere chapel half finished on the way,’ Alexander says in a theatrical whisper. ‘That hunch comes from spending half his life down the sewers, excavating old Rome, studying the ancients’ paintings. Smells like he’s still there.’ Alexander wrinkles his nose and raises a finger to one ear. ‘Deaf as a post too. His wife screams at him. Though no one knows if that is a cause or a symptom.’

  He beams at the man now standing before them. ‘How is your wife, Pinturicchio?’ he booms.

  ‘She never sees me,’ the man grumbles amiably, rubbing his hands on a piece of cloth. It is impossible to age him. He could be forty, he could be sixty.

  ‘My son, the Archbishop of Valencia.’

  ‘Pleasure, my lord,’ he says, though there is no sign of him feeling any. He sniffs loudly, cocking his head to one side in search of Cesare’s profile: fine nose, cheekbones sharp as slate, lips full, almost like a girl’s; square, clean chin. It’s the eyes that do it though: dark stones shining as if under water, but opaque, no hint of what is behind. A fighter? Or a judge maybe? But with an edge of cruelty. If he had the time… Well, family portraits are the burden he must bear in order to people the worlds he seeks to create.

  ‘You are still saying you need me to sit up there?’ Alexander points to the platform constructed halfway up.

  ‘If you want your image finished fast, yes. Your Holiness,’ he adds, the last two words something of an afterthought.

  ‘Well, we shall speak to Burchard. He will find you a suitable time.’ He smiles at Cesare. ‘See how a pope must rise towards heaven even while he is here on earth.’

  There is a cough from the vicinity of the open doorway behind them.

  ‘Johannes. How is it that whenever I speak of you, you are always there, as if you were outside listening?’

  The Pope’s Master of Ceremonies says nothing, simply slides softly across the floor. Cesare stares at him. Johannes Burchard. The only man in Rome whose face remains the same be it perfume or shit under his nose. Whose gossip was that? Cesare himself has a memory of him from years ago: a tall man like a thin bird, a heron or a cormorant, beady eyes, still, oh so still, until suddenly he starts pecking at the world around him. Now what he sees is more like a lizard, heavy-lidded and slow, the telltale folds of gizzard skin forming around his neck. Here is another one it is impossible to age correctly. Like the painter he seems shrivelled, as if neither of them had ever been young. Some men are born dry, he thinks. While others – like his father – have too much juice.

  ‘Your Holiness. Your Excellency, archbishop.’ Burchard is bowing so low it seems a miracle he does not fall over. ‘I bring a message from the Spanish ambassador. He is delayed with urgent dispatches from home and craves your indulgence. And… the Duke of Gandia is arrived.’

  The Pope claps his hands like a delighted child. ‘Ah. Good. Show him in.’

  But the Duke of Gandia, otherwise known as Juan Borgia, is already showing himself in.

  Cesare has not seen his brother since before the conclave, and while he has heard rumours of eccentricity via the loyal Pedro, he is not prepared for the sight that now greets his eye.

  The young man striding into the chamber is in full oriental dress. His hair is caught up in a pale silk turban so fat and high that it looks like a tiered sugar sculpture upon his head, and necessitates him walking with an exaggerated swagger to make sure he does not dislodge it. The outer garment is purple, embroidered silk, down to his knees, with billowing green trousers underneath and two curling embossed-leather slippers peeking out from underneath. At his belted waist hangs a shining curved scimitar.

  Cesare throws a glance at his father, but Alexander seems to have overlooked the absurdity of his son’s costume in the pleasure at having him again in his presence.

  Pinturicchio, who has taken a step back to allow the family reunion, can feel his fingers itching for paper and chalk. In his mind, the court of Alexandria is filling up beautifully with the eccentric spectators.

  ‘Cesare!’ The young man shouts the name like a war cry and the two of them meet and embrace, Cesare careful to tuck his body around the curve of the sword. As they draw back the fearsome warrior is revealed as a smooth-cheeked boy with a straggle of hair on his upper lip striving for the status of a moustache.

  Cesare’s distaste registers as a sour pinch in his gut. He has forgotten quite how much he dislikes his younger brother. His smile, however, is fulsome. It is one of the many things he has learned from his father.

  ‘Look at you! Your sense of style is common gossip in Spoleto, but we have yet to hear that you had left the Holy Mother Church for the infidel faith. What? Should I raise an army against you or shall it be hand-to-hand combat?’

  Juan laughs, evidently pleased at the impact he has had.

  ‘Combat, definitely.’ He gives a turn on the spot and pulls the scimitar from his waist in a well-practised gesture. It slices through the air, the tip coming to rest not so lightly on Cesare’s robes. ‘But be careful, brother. You are in the company of a master swordsman now.’

  The edge glints in the sun. Cesare moves the tip gently to one side. Johannes stands still as a lump of wood, but in the recesses of the chamber the apprentices’ mouths are opening and shutting like hungry fish.

  ‘Your brother has taken a fondness for the style of Prince Djem,’ says the Pope, his voice warm with pleasure at the high spirits on show.

  Juan lifts the scimitar and then, twirling it in the air, brings it to land smoot
hly back its sheath. It is not nothing, the skill in this display, and it speaks of time taken, if not wasted, in its perfecting. ‘Oh, yes indeed. He is a wild and fascinating man. You know, Cesare, he has fought in almost every country of the East and escaped death a thousand times.’

  ‘Only a thousand?’

  ‘Ah… you are jealous. He is a man of history already. He has killed more people than you ever will.’

  ‘Yes. I have heard rumours how many died laughing.’

  The Pope himself laughs at this, for his bantering sons are so clever and handsome and vital. And now everyone finds it funny. Across the room the apprentices are giggling openly, Pinturicchio is grinning, even Burchard’s face has cracked painfully into an obedient smile, and it is all suddenly a charming family scene. Cesare picks up his father’s cue, hugging Juan again and slapping him on the shoulder. ‘Ah, but it is good to see you again, brother.’

  ‘You too. We have missed your sour face at court, haven’t we, Father?’ Juan punches him on the chest. ‘Still, I think you would not mock Djem to his face. He is a tiger of a man. When I walk out with him in the city people get out of our way.’

  Cesare holds his smile as he glances again at his father. ‘You walk the streets like this?’

  ‘Oh, your brother exaggerates as always. The two of them have been in procession during certain ceremonies. They cause quite a stir. But come. No more on infidels and tigers. If we don’t let Pinturicchio get on with his work there will be nothing to dazzle your sister’s wedding guests. And Burchard? Perhaps you would join us to discuss the protocol of all these celebrations. Without your expertise I fear we will make all manner of mistakes.’

  Over his brother’s head, Cesare watches Burchard’s face. The smile has gone as fast as it arrived. There is a rumour around the Vatican that he keeps a secret diary into which he writes every detail pertaining to matters of papal ceremony. The orchestration of the marriage of a pope’s daughter, attended by his teenage mistress, three sons, a clutch of cardinals and half of Italy’s great families, will be a challenge even for him. You should be grateful to us, he thinks. There have been none like us before. And there will be none afterwards. Be careful what you write.

  CHAPTER 8

  ‘Papà says it’s all harmless. That Juan and Prince Djem are like actors in theatre and that Rome loves theatre. But you know there are dreadful tales about that man. Once, apparently, when his servant dropped something he had his hand cut off!’ Lucrezia shivers with shocked delight at the thought.

  She is particularly joyful these days, since she has not only her father but also her big brother to care for her. Today it is her turn to visit Cesare in his home in Trastevere. While not as grand as Cardinal Zeno’s palace, it is fine enough for a rich cleric, with a frieze of painted cherubs running below the receiving-room ceiling and the terracotta floor laid in perfect herringbone, as smooth on the feet as it is warm on the eye.

  ‘It may just be gossip, of course.’ She shrugs. ‘How would I know? I’ve never been allowed to meet him.’

  She sits, back straight, hands curled in her lap, aware of her grown-upness.

  ‘You should keep it that way,’ Cesare says with mock-sternness. ‘The man is a drunkard and a murderer.’

  Ah, how his little sister has changed in the time he has been away, the line from girl to young woman crossed in her wardrobe as well as her attitude. The dress she wears today is cream and gold brocade, delicate flower shapes picked out within the weave, gathered under a high waist and dissolving into a waterfall of the tiniest pleats, the wonder of fashion defying the weight of cloth. Above, her breasts are now encouraged upwards, glimpsed over the top of the constructed fabric fortress that holds them in place. Her hair, brushed till it shines, is caught in a half-garland, from where it flows down her back. There is even something about her smell that is different, a certain ripening within the perfume. Cesare does not like to think that others might have become aware of it before him.

  ‘You know his story, yes?’

  ‘Of course. He is the brother of the Sultan.’ She waves her hand airily, the young coquette courtier. Then sighs. ‘But that’s all I know. Don’t look at me like that, Cesare. I could go hoarse from asking about some things. Adriana tells me it is none of my business. Everyone treats me like a child. Which I am not any more.’

  ‘No. You are not. And now I am home I will make sure they all know it.’

  ‘Oooh, I have missed you, brother.’

  It is true for him also. Though the feelings it brings are not entirely comfortable.

  ‘So. When the last Sultan died, there was a war of accession between Djem and his brother. Djem raised an army in Egypt and when he was defeated, he went to the Knights of Malta in Rhodes, asking them to back him in his revolt. But they betrayed him and he ended up their prisoner, paid for by his brother.Then he was transferred to Rome. It is a perfect piece of diplomacy. The new sultan remains in our debt and Djem languishes in silken imprisonment in the Vatican palace.’

  ‘His own brother pays us to keep him? Surely we should try and convert him. That would send out a message to the infidels.’

  ‘No. The man is too corrupt for that. Though you might manage it, perhaps. You still pray for me, I hope.’

  ‘Every day.’ She wrinkles her nose, and the child he grew up with, sweet and serious by degrees, is back again. ‘Sometimes twice, to make up for the times you forget.’

  He laughs. ‘Then I am safe indeed.’

  ‘For you do forget, yes?’

  He pretends to think about it.

  ‘Oh, Cesare. You may have all the wonders on earth, but without Him in your heart—’

  ‘I will have to make do with my sister.’ He sits looking at her. God damn this. It is like giving Venus to a blind man. ‘So – if you can bear to carry all those skirts around with you, I have something to show you.’

  She rises up with recently practised grace, putting her hand on his offered arm. They take the stone staircase with its graceful low treads (he rides his horse up and down them for sport) into the back courtyard, where there is a newly planted grotto, with a few trees and a seat. Close by on a plinth a sculpted naked boy child lies sleeping, one plump arm thrown out in abandonment, his young flesh sinking into a pliant bed of stone.

  ‘Oh brother, what a sweet thing!’

  ‘You know who he is? Look closer.’

  And as she does she sees the patterns of feathered wings spreading out like a pillow behind his back. ‘The god of love! Cupid. Oh, but he looks so real.’ She runs her fingers down his shoulder on to his creamy stone chest. ‘Where does he come from? Is he out of the ruins?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘You must have paid a lot for him. Aunt Adriana says men are mad for such statues these days. I didn’t think you cared for such things!’

  ‘I don’t, usually. How old do you think he is?’

  ‘As ancient as Rome, at least.’

  ‘Wrong. He is younger than you.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh yes. Our little Cupid here is a fake.’

  ‘But… but he is so beautiful.’ Her eyes grow wide with the news. ‘And the stone seems so – so old and grainy. As if it had been in the earth for ages.’

  ‘Rubbed down with a solution of acid and rolled in the dirt more like.’

  ‘Who would do such a thing?’

  ‘A young Florentine artist, apparently. With as sharp an eye for business as he has a hand for sculpture. You are not the only one to be fooled. A certain cardinal who should know better paid a small fortune for him. When he found out he’d been swindled he demanded his money back from the dealer. So I bought him instead. The work of a man cunning enough to fool half of Rome deserves to be celebrated.’

  She stares down at the melting stone flesh. ‘I think it doesn’t matter how old he is. He is so lovely. Look how deeply he sleeps.’

  ‘Exhausted from all the havoc he has caused, no doubt.’ He slides his hand dow
n the body to where the boy’s penis lies curled, a small slug nestled between tender stone balls. ‘But you, I think, have yet to feel Cupid’s arrows, little sister? Despite this “courtship” of yours.’

  She gives him a shy smile, the colour rising in her cheeks. Since the conversation with her father in the chapel months before, her life has been moving so fast that it is sometimes hard to tell excitement from dizziness.

  ‘Well, am I right?’

  ‘Oh, Cesare, I have not even seen a portrait of him.’ She sinks down on to the seat, her skirts spreading around her. ‘What do you know about him, this Giovanni Sforza? Papà says he is a man of substance and civility. Do you think I will like him?’

  ‘You do not have to like him,’ he says curtly.

  ‘How can you say that? We are already betrothed! The wedding is in less than a month!’

  ‘But there will be no consummation.’

  ‘No… not immediately.’ She blushes again. ‘But one cannot be married for long and not sleep with one’s husband.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. There are others around who do it,’ he says drily.

  And now they both laugh.

  ‘She is so lovely, yes?’

  ‘Not as lovely as you.’

  ‘Cesare! I was talking about the baby.’ There is a pause. ‘I know what you think of Giulia. Don’t stare at me like that. It is not so hard. I saw how you looked at her when you visited.’

  It had been a difficult encounter. Arriving laden with presents for his sister, no one had stopped him, nor thought – or perhaps had the courage – to prepare him for what he would find. It was his first visit to their home in the palazzo of Santa Maria in Portico and he had found the family all together. As luck would have it, it had been the day when Giulia washed her hair, and as befits such a mammoth undertaking the room was full of it, stretched out over the backs of two chairs as she sat, regal in her posture, the newborn baby in its crib next to her, Adriana nearby and wet-nurses hovering in the background.