Blood & Beauty

by Sarah Dunant

  ‘She is weak.’ She greets him outside the bedroom, putting herself between him and the door. ‘Sleep is a most precious medicine. Tomorrow would—’

  ‘Tomorrow I will be halfway across Italy. I have no idea who you are, but if you do not stand away from the door I will remove you.’

  Later, when his reputation marks him as more feared than hated, she will recount this moment to others, explaining that she had intended to resist him but found herself stepping aside anyway, as if propelled against her will by the intensity of his gaze.

  The bedroom is frescoed to resemble the fall of brightly coloured curtains and lit by the night oil lamp, which makes it feel warm despite the cold. He steps up on to the platform of the carved bed that dominates the room. She is lying propped up on its pillows, her lips slightly open, waves of hair fanning out around her. The bleeding has left her very pale so that at first glance she might almost be sculpted from marble. Her face is thinner than he remembers, its puppy fat replaced by finer contours of jaw and cheekbones. He puts out a hand to touch her, to reassure himself that this is sleep rather than death, and as he does so she opens her eyes.

  ‘Ha? Cesare?’ she says with almost no surprise, and the childlike smile that crosses her face has no time to take in the complexities of what may or may not be to come. ‘Ah! I… I was dreaming that you were here. But… Is it really you?’

  ‘Yes, sweet sister,’ he says. ‘It is I.’

  She frowns, closing her eyes, and for a second it seems that she might slip away again.

  ‘Lucrezia?’

  She rouses herself and he helps her upright on to the pillows. Her body is damp from the sweat of slumber. Her breasts have been bound tight to subdue the flow of milk, and as she settles she winces as if there are places inside her that are still wounded. A woman post-partum: it is not a state he knows nor has ever wanted to think about. He has an image of Alfonso in his place, moving his hands over this ripe flesh, knowing that it is his more than ever now. The fury is so sharp that he makes himself laugh to disguise it.

  ‘You have been busy since I left.’

  ‘A little. But… but what are you doing here? I thought you were with the army? Is something wrong?’

  ‘No, no. I had final business with Papà, that is all.’ He pauses. ‘Anyway. How could I stay away from you at such a time?’

  ‘The baby?’ she says quickly. ‘Rodrigo… is…’

  ‘With your women. Safe I am sure.’

  ‘I’ll call for them to bring him.’

  ‘No. No. Not yet. It is you I came to see.’ He leans over and pushes a lock of damp hair from her forehead. Does she flinch just a fraction? ‘So, tell me, what were you dreaming?’

  ‘I… oh, oh it was horrible. You were with Father in the Room of Mysteries and you were both laughing, laughing so loudly, and I came with the baby in my arms, but Papà said that I must only talk French because that was all you spoke now. So I did, except you didn’t seem to recognise me. And when I showed you the child… you said you could not touch him because he was a… and you used some word which I didn’t know.’ She smiles apologetically. ‘When the milk came in, I could not sleep for the pain so they gave me syrup, and it brought on strange dreams… Two nights ago I dreamed that that mad Turkish prince, Djem, came back from the dead and cut off Father’s head with his curved sword.’ She shivers. ‘They say after birth women’s minds are prone to such things.’

  ‘And they are too free with their potions,’ he says, pleased to find he is not singled out. ‘If I took everything prescribed for me I would suffer more from the cure than the disease.’

  ‘What? Is your affliction returned?’

  ‘No, no, I am better.’

  ‘Still, you must be careful, Cesare. One of Papà’s cardinals died from an excess of treatment, they say.’

  ‘So I have heard. But he and I have different physicians.’

  The story had reached as far as Gaspare Torella in Milan: it seems the cardinal had been in such agonies that he had risked a new remedy brought in by some Portuguese doctor. But for every moment of relief it gave him, it added tenfold to his suffering later, and he had died screaming. Torella has been involved in a battle of words ever since. Cesare, well for so long now that he is convinced he is cured, is more interested in the vacant place in the college left by the death. War is a costly business and cardinals’ hats are a reliable form of income. ‘But we are talking of you, not me. You are too thin. They are not feeding you.’

  ‘Oh! Far from it. I am like a stuffed goose for the table.’

  ‘You look tired.’

  ‘There is little enough wonder in that,’ she says, laughing now. ‘I have laboured. I must tell you, Cesare, Eve’s sin is indeed a great burden. I don’t think many men could bear such pain easily.’

  The image of Caterina Sforza with her skirts up against her breastplate flickers through his mind. ‘Ah, but then you are a Borgia. And we can bear anything. I have missed you, sister.’

  ‘And I you, brother. So. Will you see him?… the baby, I mean,’ she rushes on in case there is any misunderstanding. ‘Papà says he looks like you. I will call them to bring him now.’

  And her face is so eager that he cannot refuse. ‘Quickly then. I ride at dawn and there is much to do.’

  But now he is leaving she suddenly wants him to stay, to use their closeness to try to repair the damage that she knows lies underneath.

  ‘Papà showed me a likeness of your wife. She is most lovely, yes? Does she adore you?’

  ‘I think she is not dissatisfied.’

  ‘And you will be a father soon too. You must bring her to Rome. Then we can all be together. The children will be—’

  But there is no time, for the door opens and the matron comes in. She approaches the other side of the great bed, getting her own back on Cesare by not letting him too close. She lays the bundle in Lucrezia’s arms.

  Rodrigo Borgia is deeply asleep. He has been in the world for eighteen days and is still greedy for the blind containment of the womb.

  ‘Isn’t he beautiful?’ she whispers.

  Cesare has never seen a baby so close to birth and he is disconcerted by the contrast of flesh and fragility. The swaddling holds him fast, framing his face. His eyelids read like faint lines drawn on to the skin. There is a sprinkling of tiny white spots around his squashed nose and his lips are puckered, as if in disapproval. As ugly as a newborn pig, he thinks, even as his hand goes out to touch him.

  ‘Can you see the resemblance?’ she adds teasingly. ‘At the baptism he was as silent as an angel until they gave him to Paolo Orsini and then he yelled his head off. Papà said—’

  ‘I know what Papà said.’

  ‘You may hold him if you want. He will not wake,’ she says, gently offering him up to him. But Cesare has already pulled his hand away.

  ‘Not now. I have a war to fight and I should have left already.’ He leans over the bed, avoiding the child and kissing her on the forehead.

  She closes her eyes to hide her disappointment.

  CHAPTER 45

  Long before there is anything to see, they can hear it. Distant thunder. The men in the fields pull the oxen to a halt, putting down the forks and spades, clambering across the half-turned earth until they are closer to the paved road, though not so close as to attract attention. The women stay where they are, calling to the smaller children, making sure they are behind their skirts before they too lift their heads and squint into the distance.

  The sharp-sighted now make out a blur on the western horizon. They wait patiently as the rumble grows and the mass gains shape and definition. First they see the phalanx of steel horses glint and shine through rising dust as they march towards the morning sun. The thunder breaks into a mass of individual sounds, horseshoe metal on stone, animals snorting, steel plates clashing: the noises of war. The metal giants, horse and man fused together by armour, ride six abreast, line after line, too many to count. A few children, wide-eyed in
wonder, shout out and are cuffed into silence by their parents.

  Behind the horses come the pike carriers, the first rows picking their way through fresh piles of dung. They keep the same pace as the cavalry despite the weight of their great timber staves; impossibly tall men with matted hair falling onto leather jerkins, worn pouches and water bottles slung round their shoulders. Now it is the turn of the infantry and regular foot soldiers. Each man carries the same rations as the Roman legions did when they tramped this road fifteen hundred years ago – half a gallon of watered wine and a quarter-loaf of bread, all bought at market prices, fair and square: generous enough to have become gossip; generous enough to tempt the young in the fields to think of throwing down their spades and joining them. Fathers hold on to their sons a little tighter as they pass.

  They keep on coming and coming until the great road of the Via Emilia is filled both in front and behind as far as the eye can see. With the kitchen carts and supply mules the mood changes: drivers whoop and laugh, big leering smiles as if they have been at their own wine supply. Most of what they say makes no sense; French, Italian, Spanish, German, Gascon; there are so many tongues glued together here that a new diced, spliced language has been created from them all, its vocabulary sufficient to the needs of war: fighting, eating, defecating, sleeping, plundering.

  After a while the women turn away, back to the earth. It is an army. They have seen it before and they will see it again. The men are waiting for the guns.

  They are buried in the midst of more infantry, mounted on carts pulled by teams of horses as strong as any oxen and able to move twice as fast to keep up with the pace of the army.

  ‘Boom. Bom. Bard.’

  The chant is a drumbeat in time to the footfalls of the gunners who march beside the carts, their dress as black as the cannons.

  ‘Boom. Bom. Bard.’

  The first gun is the biggest: La Tiverina, named after the great river in Rome, nine foot long with a mouth wide enough to spit out stone balls as big as a man’s head. They say that when the guns have all been shot and a city taken, the commanders send in special soldiers to find where the cannonballs have fallen, scraping off the blood and the brains and heaving them back on to the carts to use them another time. Thrift and death: men who work the land understand the combination better than most.

  ‘Boom. Bom. Bard.’

  The voices roll on under the wheels of the carts. A few of the younger men at the side of the road join in, as if the repetition of the words might ward off the terror. They are still chanting as the gunners disappear into the distance and the final carts clatter by, accompanied by a crowd of hangers-on: old men, boys too young to fight and a bevy of scrawny women, yelling invitations to the labourers, their language and gestures cruder than any of the soldiers’ before them.

  The Borgia army is marching the Via Emilia on its way to war.

  By the time the cavalry reaches the city of Imola, the scouts have already announced its arrival to the town’s custodians and picked a site close to where the towers of its fortress back up against the city walls. The latrines are dug, the cooking pots are belching the smells of stewed mutton and in the commander’s enclave the wine has been poured when a small delegation arrives.

  They are shown into Cesare’s official tent, sparsely decorated with trestle table, chairs and stools. He is alone except for Michelotto, his shadow now but always at a slight distance, and the veteran leader of the French force, Yves d’Alegre.

  The man who leads the handful of citizens has a clean-cut face and is fashionably dressed, a silk sash over his velvet jerkin and a plume of feathers in his cap. His boots however are filthy.

  ‘I am Giovanni Sassatelli,’ he says. ‘I am—’

  ‘I know who you are, Sassatelli,’ Cesare cuts in easily. ‘Imola has no older nor finer family than yours. If we are to go to war to bring the city back under the papal banner, then it will be my privilege to fight you.’

  Sassatelli nods in acknowledgement of the compliment. When a man is about to swallow humble pie it helps to have some honour to ease its passage down the throat. ‘There will be no need for fighting, Duke Valentino. We are here to offer you the surrender of the city.’

  Cesare is careful not to alter his expression. ‘And what moves the good citizens of Imola to make such a wise decision?’

  ‘We have heard of your magnanimity, your sagacity, your fairness. And we wish to commend ourselves into your hands.’

  ‘And your ruler? What does she think of this generous gift on her behalf?’

  ‘Caterina Sforza left for Forlì ten days ago, putting the city in the hands of myself and the governor, Dionigi da Naldo.’

  ‘Ah yes. Also a fine fighter.’ Cesare pauses. ‘He does not come with you?’

  ‘No. As governor he is also the castellan of the fortress.’ He hesitates. ‘The duchess has his children as hostage.’

  ‘Ah.’ Cesare glances towards his French counterpart. ‘Then we must see that his surrender does not bring them to any harm. Our guns will be in place by the day after tomorrow. We will need some local knowledge as to which walls are the weakest.’

  ‘There is a master carpenter who worked on the refurbishments a few years ago. I… I have spoken to him already.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘You should know, my lord, of Imola’s great distress over the plot against the Holy Father. It was none of our making. We have not flourished under Sforza rule.’

  ‘I know that, Sassatelli.’ Cesare gets up and puts his hand on the man’s shoulder as he guides him out. ‘Rest assured I have not come to replace one tyranny with another. You are brought into the hands of the Church and there will be fair government here from now on, as well as opportunities for a fighter like yourself to earn glory elsewhere.’ And he offers him his most charming smile.

  Returning to the table, he notes a wry grin on the Frenchman’s face.

  ‘What? You would prefer slaughter?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ D’Alegre waves his hand. ‘I am enjoying myself too much. Truly, my dear duke, there is no better country to make war in than Italy. Everyone is so… so reasonable when it comes to avoiding battle.’

  ‘You think it is a lack of courage?’

  In reply, d’Alegre purses his lips, as if to prevent himself from agreeing.

  ‘I think rather that they see life for what it is and know when a ruler isn’t worth fighting for.’

  ‘Or that the next one will be better,’ the Frenchman says, knowing how fond his king has grown of this confident young warrior. ‘Nevertheless, what is good for the people is not always good for the army.’

  It is a mark of Cesare’s passion for his new career that he does not take offence at d’Alegre’s patronising attitude. He knows that this veteran of the French campaign in Italy is aggrieved at having to share the field with an inexperienced twenty-four-year-old. He has gone out of his way to show him respect, engaging him in war talk, drinking in his stories of bombardments and battles, which he then revisits move by move in his head while others sleep. He has learned a great deal. But not all things need to be taught. The mood of the army is clear enough. He would like to see action as much as the next man – more, perhaps, since he knows he has something to prove – but he also has his father’s nose for politics, and with so many cities to be taken in so little time, stealth is as wise a strategy as glory. The last few days have brought rumours that the defeated Ludovico Sforza is planning a return into Italy. If he finds the troops to support him the King will call his army back and the Borgias’ great plan will have to wait.

  Imola does not take long. On the carpenter’s information, the north wall of the fortress is breached within a day and its governor, da Naldo, having failed to receive the troops he asks for, surrenders and takes up the offer of service with the Borgias. Should he find his children slaughtered, he will at least have a way to take revenge: family is one thing that is always worth killing for.

  With the city and its
leading families in pledged obedience to the Pope and Borgia rule, the army moves on to Forlì. It is close to Christmas and the Virago is ready for them, embedded in the great fortress of Ravaldino inside the city walls. Safe in the knowledge that they will never again have to face her wrath, the nobles of the town ride out to offer formal surrender. The soldiers, driven on by the prospect of warm beds, strike a fast pace and arrive ahead of the artillery.

  The triumph of entry is marred by hellish weather: lashing rains churning the streets into liquid mud, with intermittent artillery fire from the battlements of the fortress chasing them on. Discipline holds while the troops are billeted but by the time the artillery arrives the atmosphere is sour. As usual it is the Swiss and Gascon forces that set the pace, refusing to pay for what they can take for free. Six months on the road and it is Christmas, after all. The first cry of plunder is followed by a wave of violence which d’Alegre does not try hard enough to stop.

  ‘Who do they think they are, damn them!’ Cesare vents his rage at Michelotto. ‘I gave the leaders of the town my promise that this would not happen.’

  ‘What does d’Alegre say?’

  ‘What do you think he says? “It is most unforetuneight.”’ Cesare pouts his lips in imitation. ‘“But it is how souldjiers behave in war.” I tell you, if we didn’t need them so much I would plunder them myself. Imagine the satisfaction it brings her, watching her citizens slaughtered for deserting her.’

  ‘Ah, if she’s as canny as they make out, she’ll be more interested in the size of the cannons rolling up to her walls.’ He grins in his inimitably ugly way. ‘You know what soldiers say about her? That because she’s got teeth inside her cunt the only way to enjoy her is with an iron prick and stone balls.’

  It is one of many obscenities circulating, some of them written down and sent by slingshot over the walls. Whether or not the lady reads them it is hard to know. She is a law unto herself. Her former citizens speak of a palace built around the keep with vaulted ceilings and tiled floors, a summer loggia frescoed with paintings of vines and surrounded by fruit trees and a herb garden for her precious cosmetics and unguents. Every twilight she parades herself for the world to see, walking the battlements between the towers, the setting sun making a fiery halo around her wild loose hair, lighting up her armour and her unsheathed battle sword as she goes. The artillery men setting up the guns below follow her progress in a kind of awe. The French commanders, weaned on stories of combat and chivalry, are no better. Those hoping for a glimpse beneath her skirts are disappointed. Her children – even the youngest, barely a year old – have been dispatched to safety and she is no longer, it seems, interested in making more.