Blood & Beauty

by Sarah Dunant

  By the end of the week the news is everywhere and, in his palace next to the Vatican, Giovanni is starting to feel familiar stomach pains. He seeks an audience with his father-in-law.

  ‘Are you happy with my daughter?’ Alexander purrs menacingly. While he has been expecting him, he is impatient: he does not need this nervous minnow clouding up the water, when the lake is so full of sharks.

  ‘Oh yes, Your Holiness. Most happy. However, I am wondering… ’

  ‘What? Tell me.’

  ‘Well, it seems that relations with my… my family… are not so easy now.’

  ‘Your family? But you are graciously accepted into ours now.’

  He hesitates ‘Yes… only—’

  ‘Only what?’

  ‘I am a paid officer in the army of Milan.’

  ‘Ah, you are right. How clever of you to remind me.’ He smiles. If Giovanni knew him better he would read the signs. ‘I will look into a post for you within the papal forces, as befits your considerable expertise in military matters. It will come with a salary, of course.’

  ‘No, no. That is not it.’

  The Pope pauses. ‘Then what is it, dear son-in-law?’

  ‘I… I am wondering what will happen in the future.’

  ‘The future? Of course. It is frustrating. I may be God’s vicar on earth but even I cannot see what is not yet come. We shall just have to pray and await it together.’ He is no longer smiling. ‘So? Was there anything else?’

  Giovanni opens his mouth, but in his gut the biting starts.

  ‘Er… no… Not as such.’

  ‘Then I expect my dear Lucrezia would like you back for the evening.’

  After he goes Alexander sits for a moment. What a sniveller the man has turned out to be. He never liked him, and it is clear the marriage has brought his daughter no pleasure, which in turn brings him pain. But until they have negotiated the political rapids to come there is nothing he can do.

  Easter week arrives, unseasonably cold, and Alexander puts on his ceremonial robes and leads his city in mourning and then jubilation. During the processions through the streets he is tireless, making sure to greet and talk to many in the crowd. His head may be full of politics, but he understands the need for the shepherd to be with his flock.

  On Good Friday he and the dignitaries of Church and state attend a Passion play inside the ancient Colosseum. The spectacle is a recent addition to the religious calendar and everyone in Rome, rich and poor, is entranced by it. The cast is huge, with young nobles of the great families dressed in Roman costume competing to take part, playing soldiers and citizens of Jerusalem. It begins in daylight, the great amphitheatre packed with spectators, and ends with a man strapped to a cross in the middle of the arena as the sun goes down and the torches flare up. To relive the suffering of Our Lord in a place where the very first martyrs gave up their blood for the faith offers a double poignancy, and in the papal box, where the Pope sits with his entourage, as comfortable as any emperor, it is Alexander himself who leads the weeping. The sound of moaning and crying spreads out in waves through the audience. The emotion leaks out on to the street and that night there are incidents in the Jewish Quarter, gangs of young Christian men wreaking vengeance for the crimes of ancestors. Eventually Alexander sends in the papal guard to restore order, but he understands better than most what is happening here. When there is fear about the future, it is comforting to take it out on outsiders who can be blamed for the past.

  From unsettled, the weather becomes downright fractious. Amid torrential rain, Burchard leaves Rome for the hazards of the road. Jofré and a bedraggled wedding party follow. In lieu of the Pope himself, the investiture will be done by his cousin, Cardinal Juan Borgia Lanzo. There is nothing to be gained from being coy: Naples is now a family affair.

  The rain and storms follow them south, making mudslides of the roads and prolonging the journey. Alexander paces his chambers, waiting. Eventually news comes that the deed is done. Alfonso, having bowed to every demand, including total fealty to the papacy, is crowned King, and Jofré and Sancia are man and wife.

  Alexander’s delight is muted by reading a further, secret dispatch that arrives soon after. While the lovely Sancia was duly impressed by the trunks of clothes and gems that were flung open in front of her, it appears that she hadn’t bothered to conceal her disappointment with the pimply adolescent who brought them. It was common court gossip that there was only one virgin in the couple’s marriage bed that night, and that young Jofré had found the whole thing so overwhelming that he cried like the twelve-year-old child he still is. When he reads this the Pope has tears of fury in his eyes. Well, such humiliation will cost Naples dear. Both Jofré and Juan are now lords of large territorial lands inside the state, while Cesare is showered with new benefices. One way or another, the union between the two families is satisfactorily consummated.

  Cardinal della Rovere, who has effectively removed himself from Rome by retreating to his coastal fortress at Ostia, now uses this moment to set sail for France. It is a clear sign of brewing rebellion from inside the Church. In Paris he is welcomed by the pin-headed king, Charles VIII. Like many young monarchs he is attracted to the glamour of war, though he is also fond of his court comforts and the Alps are a strenuous climb even if one is being carried.

  The king and the cardinal spend days closeted together, della Rovere eloquent on the wonders of making history and the glory of pleasing God in the process. At times he grows so excited that his arguments seep out of the palace to the world beyond

  When the messengers arrive back in Rome, no one, not even Cesare, goes into the Pope’s chambers for a while. The essence of della Rovere’s attack is personal: accusations against the character of Alexander, the corruption of the Holy See, and the pressing need for a great council of reform.

  The battle for Naples is becoming a battle for the future of the papacy itself.

  Wet spring turns to boiling summer. The Pope and Cesare meet with King Alfonso and his generals and agree a strategy for the defeat of the foreign enemy. It would be more convincing if their alliance were not so isolated. The Venetian ambassador offers fighting talk but everyone – including Milan – knows that it will never lead to action. Venice did not gain an empire on the seas by wasting her money fighting for land that she has no interest in owning. Meanwhile, worse is happening in Florence, where the Medici are losing their grip on the city thanks to a mad Dominican monk whose sermons pour rivers of hot lava down onto both Pope and government, prophesying the cleansing of Italy through the might of a foreign sword. In Rome many of Alexander’s own cardinals now find it safer to express their opinions on the matter only to God. Uncertainty is more contagious than the plague.

  Cesare, in contrast, believes in strategy, not prayer. He knows he is his father’s closest adviser and, as family, the only one he really trusts. In private, he rails against the impotency of a papacy which owns chunks of central Italy but rents it out for pin-money to half-baked tyrants and imbeciles with as much loyalty as a sack of rats. Had his father been Pope for longer… Had he not been forced to spend his life in church… Next time… If there is to be a next time.

  For once in his life Giovanni Sforza, one of those same half-baked tyrants and imbeciles, manages to translate his churning bowels into political strategy. It is possibly his finest hour.

  ‘I understand how deeply preoccupied you are, Your Holiness, but as I’m sure you know, summer fever is on the move again through the city.’

  ‘And you’re worried you might catch it,’ Cesare murmurs sweetly from his chair at the side of the room.

  ‘My worry is not for myself, but for your sister, my beloved wife,’ he replies firmly, ignoring the sarcasm. If he turns his head sharply enough towards the Pope he can cut Cesare out of his vision altogether. ‘I have to tell you one of the servants in the palace has been taken ill with it.’

  ‘When?’ Alexander, who has not had the time to visit either of his favourite women
for a while now, is immediately anxious. Roman fever can kill within the time it takes a doctor to find his way to a house.

  ‘A few days ago.’

  ‘I should have been told!’ he roars. ‘Why was I not told? He or she must be expelled and my daughter and her women need to leave the city.’

  ‘It is already seen to. The servant is gone and the packing is begun. The only question is where, given the… the situation.’ He pauses, but not long enough for Cesare to interrupt. ‘I have what I believe is the answer, Your Holiness. With your permission I will take my wife to Pesaro. It has a good climate, healthier than Rome, and it has been a year since she became the duchess, so her formal introduction to her city is long overdue.’

  ‘Pesaro? How long would you stay?

  ‘I had thought perhaps, until things become… well, quieter here. She will enjoy the city and its people. As they will her, I am sure. And as the duke I would be remiss in my duty to delay their meeting any longer.’

  ‘And what about your duty to the Pope whose state you govern on his behalf?’ retorts Cesare. ‘Or are you perhaps planning to spend half your time in Milan?’

  Alexander throws his son a sharp glance. You are not needed in this conversation, it says.

  Giovanni sees it, and slips in fast. ‘I am not speaking of myself, you understand, only my wife,’ he says, again addressing only the Pope. ‘I shall escort her, settle her in and, of course, return if and when you need me to serve in my military capacity. Meanwhile the duchess and her household will remain safe, healthy and protected for as long as they wish.’

  There is a small silence in the room.

  ‘And my daughter is aware of this plan, yes?’

  Giovanni is so pleased now he cannot help beaming.

  ‘Oh yes, Your Holiness, she certainly is. And excited too. I think you will find she is as eager to meet her subjects as they are to meet her.’

  ‘It seems my son-in-law has balls after all.’

  ‘I look forward to cutting them off. Did you see him sweating? Sweet Jesus, I think—’

  ‘I know what you think, Cesare. And so does he now, if he was ever in any doubt. What is wrong with you? We do not speak of anything that affects our security outside of the family, you know that.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I lost my temper.’

  ‘So I see. Yet he is no more a fool than many others that you manage to keep it with.’

  ‘He is a fool who is husband to my sister.’

  ‘Ha…’ Alexander smiles grimly. ‘Yes, that is one thing you were right about. I should have married her elsewhere.’

  ‘So put him on the battlefield. I promise you he won’t survive it.’

  ‘No,’ he says sharply. ‘It is not the right moment.’ He stares at him. There are things growing in his son that he does not recognise, things he has never taught him. ‘One enemy at a time, Cesare. One enemy at a time.’

  ‘I still say he will betray us.’

  ‘What is there to betray? We barely know what we are doing ourselves.’

  ‘He will know about troop movements in the Romagna, and if the French get close to Naples—’

  ‘If they get that far they won’t need any help from him.’

  ‘What, you think it possible?’

  ‘There is no point in naivety. When they come, if the Neapolitan fleet beat off their ships, if we ruffle Ludovico’s feathers in Milan, if Virginio Orsini stays loyal as the general of Alfonso’s armies around Rome, then we stand a chance.’

  Cesare waits. ‘And if not?’ he asks at last.

  ‘If not?’ Alexander’s eyes rest for a moment on his own likeness, now captured faithfully, even unflatteringly, by Pinturicchio in the lunette above the door: Pope Alexander VI staring up in devotion towards the risen Christ. How the gold on his papal robes catches fire in the sunlight. The decoration of the Room of Mysteries is almost complete. All it lacks is the scene of the Annunciation; with the figures of the angel and his beloved Mary already marked out on the back wall. Ah, it is everything he could have wished for and it has cost him a small fortune. It does not bear thinking about what would happen to all this beauty if Naples falls and della Rovere manages to force another papal conclave. ‘If not, we shall just have to outwit them by other means.’

  ‘And so we will.’ Cesare’s voice resounds like a bell. ‘We did not climb this high to fall so quickly, Father. God Himself would not allow it.’

  God. The word sounds almost strange in his son’s mouth.

  ‘Why was I not told there was fever in the house?’

  There are packing cases everywhere. ‘You are not easy to get to talk to these days, Your Holiness.’ Adriana holds her ground. ‘She will be ready to leave within a few days.’

  ‘Oh yes. And where is she going?’

  She hesitates.

  ‘Pesaro perhaps?’ he prompts.

  She holds his gaze. ‘Rome is a stew on the boil. Pesaro will be safer than many cities and she is its duchess. If she is to find a place in her life, then let it be there. For now at least.’

  ‘Hmmm. Well, she cannot go alone. You will go too, to oversee the journey and settle her in.’

  ‘Of course, you think I would desert her?’ She pauses.

  ‘Yes. Yes? You have something more to say to me, Adriana?’ he says. ‘Go on – say it.’

  ‘What about Giulia…?’

  ‘I do not want to leave you, my lord.’ That night, for the first time in weeks, they lie together. He stares at her in the candlelight; her eyes are soft with love. Is it true, or simply what she feels she must say? With so much politicking going on in his head, he is beginning to doubt everyone. ‘I have lived through plagues before.’

  ‘That is no guarantee you will live through this one. The summer is wet as well as hot. I cannot take the risk. Rome is not a city for pleasure these days.’

  ‘It is true that I barely see you now.’ She drops her head to one side as if to look at him better and her hair falls and swirls around her. ‘But Pesaro is so far away. Perhaps I could go somewhere closer. To my family in Capodimonte?’

  ‘No,’ he says immediately. ‘If the French invade by the west it will be directly on the route they will take.’

  ‘I will not be gone that long. Just till the fever fades.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Pesaro would be better,’ he says again.

  She sighs. ‘Well, Rome without Lucrezia and Adriana will be a most boring place.’ She smiles sweetly and just for a second it seems to him that perhaps she does not fight so hard after all.

  Once the task of packing up the household is complete, the great caravan of horses and carts sets out from Rome amid the usual tearful farewells of the Pope. He sends a cohort of troops to accompany them, but at the last moment Cesare insists that a few of his own hand-picked men ride with them as far as the edge of the papal states. While it is a thinly veiled attack on his ability to look after his wife, Giovanni knows better than to refuse it.

  Remembering that his sister does not welcome Michelotto, he gives Pedro Calderón the job of liaising directly with the women. It is a happy choice, as young Pedro already knows the household, having been the messenger for the palace letters for many months. Only now he has reason to come into the presence of the Duchess Lucrezia herself.

  As she is busy their meeting is brief. But that does not lessen its sweetness for him. They stand amid a roomful of chests, last-minute things that are ‘essential’ for them to take with them.

  ‘You are most kind to be so patient.’ Lucrezia looks around, distracted. She has earthed her anxiety with organisation, but is finding the actual leaving upsetting. ‘It seems there is always more…’

  ‘Please. Do not concern yourself. It is my duty and my deep pleasure to be of any service.’ The words are so full of feeling and then he bows so low and stays there so long that she cannot help but be amused.

  ‘I believe our paths have crossed before. You work for my brother the cardinal, yes?’

  ‘Yes.�
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  ‘You used to deliver our letters to him when he was in Spoleto, isn’t that true?’

  ‘Yes, yes, my lady, it is.’

  ‘I thought I recognised you.’ She smiles. ‘And your name is?’

  ‘Calderón. Pedro Calderón.’

  ‘Well, Pedro Calderón, my aunt says you ride like the devil with the face of an angel. I am not sure of that, but you are much nicer to look at than that man who usually guards my brother. Though I dare say you are both equally brave.’

  ‘In the service of Your Ladyship you will find none braver,’ he says, his face flushing pink like a fast rash. ‘I mean, that is, both of us.’

  Which amuses her even more.

  ‘Then I hope my life is such that I never have need of such bravery. Tell me, have you ever been to Pesaro?’

  ‘No, no, my lady.’ He hesitates. ‘But I have heard that it is a fine city.’

  ‘What else have you heard?’

  He shrugs his shoulders. ‘That they are looking forward to greeting their radiant new duchess.’

  ‘Oh, but you are a flatterer as well as a warrior, Señor Calderón.’ She laughs. ‘Well, I have never been anywhere but Rome. So I am looking forward to it also… I think… Though I fear leaving my family here with the winds of war around us.’

  ‘You are not to worry. Nothing will happen to them. That I promise you.’ He pauses. ‘But when all this is over you will return home, I hope. Rome will be a much greyer place without you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She stares at him. It is the language of common chivalry, the kind she encounters every day from ambassadors and courtiers, yet there is something in its delivery that brings pinpricks of tears to her eyes. Ah, it must be the excitement of the day.

  She gives him a bright smile as the room fills up with servants and the business of packing takes over.

  CHAPTER 15

  The bigger the army, the longer it takes to get itself on the road. Then there is the matter of a mountain range to be negotiated. Summer is ending when Charles VIII and his thirty thousand men, accompanied by Cardinal della Rovere, cross the north-west alpine passes and pour down into Italy.