Blood & Beauty

by Sarah Dunant

  Juan, however, snaps around in instant outrage, and there is a sudden hush as the room holds its breath, waiting for a weapon to be drawn. Instead the duke, flushed and unsteady on his feet, flings down his goblet and marches out of the room. By the time the Vice-Chancellor gets to the courtyard, his honoured guest is on his horse and out on the streets, hammering towards the bridge and the Vatican. Ascanio Sforza returns, a nervous smile on his face, and waves the guests back to enjoyment.

  But Juan Borgia is not finished yet.

  The Pope is sitting through a less than enjoyable foot massage and drinking his after-dinner fennel-and-mint infusion when his son storms into his chamber, ranting about insult and violation. The servant is dismissed, Juan’s voice ringing in his ears as he backs out of the room.

  ‘Roman scum!’ the Pope says when he has heard it. ‘I thought we had silenced their crowing. If I had a ducat for every ill word spoken against us, we might have made our fortune quicker than we have. You were right to walk away, my son. It is beneath a duel. We will deal with them later.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Father. I’ve come here because later will be too late. The attack was directed at me but it was aimed at you. Because I am your heir. It is you he was insulting. And such disrespect should be paid for immediately.’

  The door opens on the Cardinal of Valencia. The servant’s fast exit and the raised voices have caused commotion outside. Juan scowls, but his brother is already in the room.

  ‘What is it? Are we attacked?’

  Alexander shakes his head. ‘Your brother has been severely wounded by words.’

  Cesare listens. When the story is finished he can hardly hold back his sneer. ‘So where were your sword and your men?’

  Gandia turns on him. ‘I’m a general, not a thug. I don’t grapple and brawl like some.’

  ‘How many of them were there, brother?’

  ‘Four, five… what does it matter?’

  Cesare’s look is its own answer.

  ‘This is not about me,’ he roars. ‘It was deliberate provocation against the papacy.’

  Cesare opens his mouth, but Alexander silences him with a look.

  ‘It is justified anger, Juan. And it will not go unmarked. We will have an apology or people in jail by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Tomorrow it will be all around town. We should hit back now, hard, so they get the message that we are not for playing with. They will be laughing behind our backs already.’

  ‘No doubt about that,’ Cesare says under his breath.

  ‘So what would you have us do instead, my son?’

  ‘Fight fire with fire. Send in the Papal Guard now and string the man up for all to see as a warning to others.’

  Cesare lets out a hiss of a breath. Juan turns on him.

  ‘What – you don’t have the stomach for that, cardinal?’

  ‘It is not to do with stomach. The Vice-Chancellor has immunity in his own home. It would be a breach of Church law.’

  ‘Oh – Church law!’ Juan says, making it sound like a petticoat game. ‘That would be your business, yes? Except I am talking family justice in the face of treachery.’

  ‘Ah, grow up, brother. It was common insult, not treachery. It just got you where it hurt, in your vanity. An easy hit. All you do is make enemies. The wives you chase, the husbands you insult, the way you swagger around. Half of Rome hates you already. If you send soldiers in to do your dirty work, the other half will feel the same tomorrow. Yes, Father, I know you want me to stop, but someone has to tell him,’ he says quickly. ‘If it hurts so much to be called a bastard, Michelotto will come out with you tonight and see this man doesn’t go home with his insides still in his body. My household never sleeps till dawn anyway.’

  ‘That’s your way, not mine. You do things in the dark because you’re in Church robes and you don’t want anyone to recognise you. You don’t need to worry. You might be important in here, Cesare, but I tell you, out there on the streets no one has heard of the Cardinal of Valencia. I am the one who holds the honour for this family. It’s my sons that will inherit half of Naples. Thanks to my victory on the field.’

  ‘What? A few Spanish fucks and a botched battle and now you’re a hero?’

  ‘You dare—’

  ‘Sorry. Have I insulted you? Poor Juan. You want to fight me?’ And he moves closer. ‘Or maybe you should just get Father to do it for you.’

  ‘Cesare!’ Alexander’s voice cuts into them both.

  His eldest son takes a deep breath, his eyes cold as a cat. ‘I am sorry, Your Holiness.’ He lifts up both his hands as if in surrender before stepping back. ‘We are talking family business and I thought you might want to hear my advice on the subject. I wish you well, brother. I will be in my rooms if I am needed.’

  And he turns and walks out, leaving the door open behind him.

  ‘Cesare.’ Alexander’s voice reaches out through the door into the room beyond. ‘Cesare!’

  But he does not stop.

  ‘He’s a bad loser,’ Juan says sourly. ‘He always was. But he is wrong about this, Father. I was there and he was not. I know what we should do.’

  The Pope looks at his son’s angry, handsome young face and the insult he has sustained becomes his own. Spanish bastard! How dare they abuse the family thus after all he has done for Rome? It is, indeed, insupportable and must be punished.

  His beloved Juan cannot be denied.

  In the Vice-Chancellor’s palace there is madness and mayhem. The cohort of papal troops, with Juan at the head, break their way in past the guards. The screaming starts even before they enter the room, men and women running for cover, the offending young man, desperate to save himself, hiding behind chairs and tables. Furniture is smashed, food and wine flung everywhere as they try to root him out. A couple of other young bloods draw weapons and there is a short battle among the debris of the night. One of the guests takes a wound, the others scatter. In the end they find him: a woman is trying to hide him, or maybe he is just clinging to her skirts. As they drag him away she begins to yell, a high-pitched howl like a wounded animal, and he joins in. By the time they get him out of the palace, half the neighbourhood is awake and watching. Anyone who is anyone in Rome is now either in the palace or on the streets. They fling his bound body over the back of a horse as he thrashes violently, and ride a few blocks to the river, at the edge of which there are trees of suitable height. As they throw the rope he lies crying for mercy, begging Juan to forgive him. They string him up and he hangs awkwardly for a second, choked yells coming out of him. One of the guards grabs his legs and pulls sharply. His neck snaps and the body slumps, swinging madly to left and right. Behind on the bank a small crowd gathers. As the soldiers mount and ride away a few throw stones at them, though from far enough away that they will not hit. The mix of fear and outrage is palpable.

  Next morning half the city comes down to gawp at the sight. The early-summer sun parboils the flesh, and by nightfall the corpse is already turning putrid.

  CHAPTER 26

  In the Vatican, business goes on as normal. Having made the decision to stand by his son, Alexander does not waver. If Burchard has views on the incident he keeps them to himself. In the Papal Consistory the attack is not referred to, though there are loud murmurings about the further favouring of the Duke of Gandia with what should have been papal lands in Naples. Alexander, now as sensitive to criticism as his son, tells them if it were not for him Rome would be half French by now and most of them poisoned or dead in a ditch somewhere to make room for new blood. He will do what he pleases with the land that has been recaptured. The session ends in angry silence.

  Juan keeps to his apartments until things have calmed. When he does go out a few days later, no one comes near him. Even the fake compliments have stopped. The lesson has been learned, I am respected now, he thinks. His swagger and his appetite for erotic adventure return.

  Alexander might have found time to urge a little caution on his son’s b
ehalf, but he is consumed now by the vexed question of his daughter’s marriage. Despite his bullying, the Church lawyers are finding no credible reason why the union was not valid in the first place. If it cannot be done one way, it will be done another. Lucrezia must now lodge an appeal directly to him, the Pope.

  The Latin text that Burchard draws up is formal but explicit: Lucrezia, Duchess of Pesaro, attests that she has been in the keeping of the family for over three years and that the union is still without any sexual relation, without nuptial intercourse or any carnal knowledge. She swears to this fact and is prepared to submit herself to the examination of a midwife.

  All it needs is Lucrezia’s signature. Thank goodness for the loving obedience of his daughter.

  ‘Papà, I cannot sign this.’ She looks up from the paper, her eyes awash with tears. Ever since she has learned from Adriana that an examination will be called for she has been in dread of this moment, but seeing it here now in black and white the terror is even worse. ‘How can I swear before God to such things when they are not true?’

  ‘Don’t think of it as true or untrue,’ he murmurs. ‘It is simply a way to help the Church lawyers, who like me care greatly for your welfare, to find a solution to this… knotty puzzle. Here, here – take the pen.’

  She stares at him, swallowing hard, but even as she reaches out her hand the floodgates open and soon she is crying so much that he has to rescue the parchment lest it soak up the salty rain. Oh, there is nothing he hates more than to see a woman cry…

  ‘Very well, very well,’ he counters patiently, ‘it does not need to be done today. I shall leave it here so you may think more on it. The Lord God will help you with the decision. But do not take too long: these Sforzas are slimy vermin and they will use any hesitation in their defence. Shall I send Adriana to you? Or Sancia? Or Giulia perhaps? They are women who know a thing or two about marriage and may be able to soothe your fears.’

  But Lucrezia, now inconsolable, wants no one. Infected by undercurrents of sexual jealousy and intrigue, life at court has lost its shine and since the flight of her husband she has retreated into the company of her own entourage, led by her lady-in-waiting, Pantisilea. The more she frets the faster her embroidery grows. The flecks of blood are overstitched with scarlet thread and new flowers emerge under her fingers, bursting with life and colour. Days pass and she starts to feel calmer. The declaration, however, remains unsigned.

  Alexander, growing impatient, calls for Cesare. He understands that his son is angry with him, and it is beginning to cross his mind that he might have been a little hasty in defence of Juan’s reputation. Still, what is done is done. Cesare above all others knows that he is not a man to apologise – unless he doesn’t mean it – and for that there has to be something to be gained from the pretence. Instead they will make their peace by putting family business first.

  ‘You have a way with her. You always have had. She loves no man better than she loves you. If you explain it to her again, I am sure she will agree. I don’t think I can suffer another storm of tears. Women! They do feel such things so deeply. When I think of Christ’s crucifixion, sometimes I cannot help but be moved as much by the grief of Our Virgin Lady Maria herself. Ah, the power of love for one’s children.’

  Cesare, who has little time to dwell on the Lord’s death – or even much on his life, for that matter – bows his head in acceptance of the task.

  ‘I am sure you know that you are a great support and source of strength to me and I depend on you for many things.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ he replies, with no evident sense of rancour. ‘I do know that.’

  Despite herself, Lucrezia is pleased to see him. They begin with gossip, for even in distress she has not lost her appetite for that. Rumours of Juan’s bad behaviour have seeped under the firmest-closed doors, but in her isolation she has missed the colour of detail. Cesare is a fine storyteller and before he is finished she is cowering in the Vice-Chancellor’s palace, watching in horror as the young unfortunate is pulled screaming from under her skirts to his fate.

  ‘Oh, Cesare. He is my brother and I would not see him insulted for the world, but as you tell it I feel sorry for the man.’

  ‘You and half of Rome.’

  ‘So people will be angry with Papà now as well as Juan.’

  For all that she is a girl, she has always been sharper than the others when it comes to understanding politics. ‘It is spilt milk and we will just have to lap it up. We have risen high in a city that never welcomed us, and it is not done by making friends.’

  ‘No,’ she says, ‘I think I have realised that now. And you? Are you angry with Juan as well?’

  ‘Ha! If he wasn’t my brother I’d strangle him with my own hands.’ He laughs as he sees the look on her face. ‘It’s all right. It is a thought, not a deed. Confession will handle it. We are family, remember.’

  ‘Yes, we are family,’ she sighs. ‘You are here to get me to sign the letter, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am here to do whatever it takes to make your future happier than your past. You deserve better than that… that fop.’

  ‘What happened when he was here, Cesare? He was very frightened. Did you threaten him?’

  ‘No need. He shits himself every time anyone looks at him.’ She winces slightly at the crudity. ‘Ah, sister. You know as well as I do that he has never been the right man for you. The sooner he is out of all of our lives the better.’

  ‘And it has to be this way?’

  ‘It has to be a way that works. And this is it.’

  ‘Even if it is not the truth? It is not a fair way to fight, Cesare.’

  ‘What, you think he fights fair? You are too kind. Your husband is a coward and a sniveller and he has betrayed you and the family a dozen times over.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You really don’t know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘The man is a traitor, Lucrezia, a spy and a conspirator. We almost lost the war thanks to him. He betrayed us to Milan at every turn. We gave him a position in the army and he paid us back by giving details of our troop movements to Duke Ludovico, so that when the French headed for Rome they knew exactly where not to go. He carries the guilt for the occupation on his miserable little shoulders.’

  ‘No! No… He didn’t do that.’

  ‘You think not? What else was he doing all that time in Pesaro? He wasn’t in bed making love to you.’

  He throws it out and immediately it hits home. He can see it in her face. ‘Think about it. Your letters to me were full of the visits he was making this way and that. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice anything?’

  Except now, of course, she remembers. That night when she had gone to him and found him in his study, writing, the table strewn with letters and maps. The way he had flung his arms over the papers so that she could not see what he was studying.

  ‘Whatever is troubling you, you can tell me. Is it my family?’

  And his voice, gruff with anxiety.

  ‘No, no. It is just politics. Affairs of state, nothing to worry yourself about. Go back to bed.’

  Yes, she has known it somewhere. ‘Dear God, Cesare, I should have told you.’

  ‘You did. Your letters were as good as his confession. He doesn’t deserve any pity. If he had had his way, what do you think would have happened? We would have been strung up or poisoned by now. And a new pope would be dissolving your marriage on the grounds of your barrenness.’

  ‘Oh… oh.’ She closes her eyes, bringing her fists up to her chest in a gesture of angry helplessness. As the tears come, Cesare reaches out and takes one of her hands, pulling it down to rest within his. He says nothing, just lets her weep.

  Except she doesn’t want to be crying. As in that night in Pesaro when she had confronted Giovanni, she is angry as much as she is sad, because none of these things are of her doing. He had understood that. He had got up from his chair and held her in his arms; held her and called her hi
s wife, his lovely Borgia wife. Only the words had been like wormwood in his mouth. A lovely Borgia wife. That is what she will always be. A poisoned gift. Too difficult and too dangerous for any man.

  She is crying not only for her past but for her future. ‘You don’t understand, Cesare. In his way he did love me. Or tried to. And if I sign this I will have to go before a court and lie. Lie! Before men of the Church. Before God.’

  ‘It is not so serious as you make out. Such things are a formality.’

  ‘On oath before the Church! A formality! And what about the examination? Because they will examine me. Is that a formality too?’

  ‘In its way, yes. It will take place behind closed doors. And the midwives will find whatever we tell them to.’

  ‘But they will examine me, yes? And how can they too lie? I am no longer a maid, Cesare.’

  He flinches at the words, his eyes suddenly cold.

  ‘Oh sweet Jesus, I wish I still was.’ The words burst out and with them come sobs, gulps of self-pity and pain. He pulls her to him and holds her tight, and she gives in to him, burying her head into his chest as she weeps and weeps.

  ‘Ssshh. Hush,’ he murmurs, rocking her to and fro. ‘Don’t think about it. It will be all right. No one will hurt you in any way. I would never let that happen. You know that.’

  But the more she tries to contain herself, the more she breaks down, as if the tears are all the things that she can never say; the humiliation of it, the strain of living so close to other people’s desire yet never feeling her own, of being a young woman who is adored but not loved. Whatever that word means. The tears soak into the velvet of his coat, her skin hot and clammy against the cloth. She has always felt safe inside his arms, this beautiful, powerful elder brother, whom so many fear but who has always been as tender as a lover with her.