by Jean Plaidy
This meant that he was going to need a great deal of money to keep his armies intact, and accordingly Alexander fell back on the old method of creating Cardinals who were ready to pay dearly for their hats. In this way he made a profit of 150,000 ducats in a very short time.
There were other methods of raising money, and it was noticed that, at this time when the Borgias were hard-pressed, many rich people died mysteriously.
The very rich Venetian Cardinal, Michiel, was given a poisoned draught by a certain Asquinio Colloredo who had been paid to administer it by the Borgias. Michiel died, and his vast fortune went to the Pope and proved very useful.
But a great deal of money was required for the armies of the new Duke of Romagna, and Cantarella had a big part to play in obtaining it.
There was a feeling of perpetual insecurity among those who knew their deaths could bring profit to the Borgias. Cardinal Gian Battista Orsini was suddenly accused of plotting to poison the Pope and lodged in Castel Sant’ Angelo. He denied this charge and was tortured in the hope that he would confess. It would have pleased Cesare and his father to be able at this time to pin the charge, of which they had so often been suspected, on someone else. But Cardinal Orsini refused, even under torture, to confess; and the powerful Orsini family were infuriated that one of them should be so treated. They realized however that the Papal State was now under the complete domination of Cesare, and that this brutal man led his father in all things.
They knew that the real reason for these persecutions was the fact that the Orsini family were rich, so they offered a great reward for the release of the Cardinal. The Cardinal’s mistress loved him dearly and it happened that in the possession of this woman was a pearl of great price, so famous that it was known throughout Italy. The woman appeared before the Pope and offered him this pearl for the release of her lover.
The Pope, gallant always, smiled at the woman, for she was very beautiful: “I envy the Cardinal,” he said, “in his possession of your love. This pearl you offer is unique. You know that.”
“Give him back to me, and it is yours.”
“I could refuse you nothing,” answered the Pope.
Cesare was furious when he heard that the Pope had agreed to the release of the Cardinal.
He raged about his father’s apartments. “He will disclose the fact that he has been tortured. There will be more evil rumors concerning us than ever. Moreover, we want the death of this man.”
Alexander smiled serenely at his son. “There are times when I feel you do not understand your father,” he murmured.
“I understand you well,” stormed Cesare. “You have only to hear a request from the lips of a pretty woman and you must grant it.”
“We have the pearl. Do not forget that.”
“We could have had the pearl and his life.”
The Pope was smiling pleasantly. “I see we think alike. This lovely woman must receive her lover, since I have promised her that. Already he has been given his goblet. She will receive her lover this day. I did not say whether he would be alive or dead. We have this priceless pearl and, in exchange, our little friend will have the Cardinal’s corpse.”
Other members of the Orsini family had been murdered recently. These were Paolo Orsini and the Duke of Gravina. The Orsinis were friends of the French, and Louis, furious when Alexander put Goffredo in charge of a company and sent him against the family, declared that his friends must be no more molested. Alexander ignored him.
It was during August when Cardinal Giovanni Borgia of Monreale died suddenly. The Cardinal was a very rich man; he had been a miser, and his death revealed that he was even richer than had been hoped. The Pope and Cesare could not fail to be delighted with his wealth which fell into their hands.
A few days after the death of this Cardinal there came to Cesare and his father an invitation to a supper party in the vineyard of Cardinal Adriano Castelli da Corneto outside the city.
Corneto was one of the richest of the Cardinals and was having a palace built for him in the Borgo Nuovo by the brilliant architect Bramante. He urged the Pope and Cesare to come, that they might first inspect the building which he was sure would be of great interest to them, and afterward retire to his vineyard for the party, which should not be large but nevertheless worthy of Their Eminences.
Cesare and his father were delighted with the invitation. They made their plans.
Cesare had his men in every important household in Rome. He issued orders that a dose of Cantarella should be slipped into the Cardinal’s wine. Not a big dose. The Cardinal should not be immediately smitten. His death should not occur until a few days after the banquet.
They set out for the Borgo Nuovo where, at his unfinished house, Cardinal Corneto was waiting to receive them.
“It is a great honor,” murmured the Cardinal. “I appreciate your coming on such a night. The heat is overpowering.” The Pope laughed lightly, implying that the heat did not disturb him; he was as strong as a man half his age.
Cesare, admiring the work, declared that Bramante should build a house for him, and his smile was sardonic as he glanced at his father. Bramante was an artist; he should be allowed to finish his work, but it would not be for Corneto; it would be for the Borgias. It was a situation which appealed to Cesare. The poor fool was boasting of his treasures, little knowing that they would not long be his to boast about. But both the Pope and his son showed a deep and unfeigned interest in everything they saw. The wealth of Corneto would be a fine acquisition.
“Come,” said the Cardinal at length, “let us ride to my vineyard. ’Tis thirsty work, on such a night, inspecting a palace in the process of being built.”
“I confess to a thirst,” said the Pope.
So they came to the vineyard where the alfresco supper was ready for them.
“We will first slake our thirst,” cried Corneto; and Trebbia wine was served.
The Pope was very thirsty; he drank deeply of the wine; Cesare watered his a little, and Corneto watered his considerably, as did the few others present.
When the feasting began Cardinal Corneto gave no sign of the uneasiness he was feeling as he covertly watched his guests.
How heartily the Pope’s laughter rang out! How smugly contented was Cesare! Did it never occur to them to count their enemies? Did they not realize that there might be people who were ready to risk their own lives for revenge? They had made life cheaper, yet they did not understand this. There might be a slave whose daughter or son had been taken by Cesare for half an hour’s amusement, or perhaps had offended the Lord of Romagna in some way and had lost a hand or a tongue because of it. Were Cesare and his father so ignorant of human nature that they thought a slave had no feelings? Such a man, who had suffered through loved ones, would be ready to risk twenty lives, if he had them, for a glorious moment of revenge.
And the Cardinal himself? He had possessions which were envied, and his life was in danger. It did not seem to him an unworthy action to save the lives of others which were threatened while he saved his own.
He knew he could trust his servant who had good reasons to hate the Borgias. The powder which the Borgias had intended should be put into Cardinal Corneto’s wine should be put into that of the Pope and his son. But the Cardinal had decided that all his guests must take a little of the poison so that every one at that supper table should suffer slightly. Then it might be believed that the malady which he intended should kill the Pope and his son would appear to have been caused by some poison in the air, for at this time of the year the condition of the Roman streets had a poisonous effect and many people suffered “summer sickness” on account of it. But even if it were suspected that the Borgias had died of poison, everyone would be ready to believe that there had been a mistake and the wine intended for the Cardinal had been given to the Borgias.
The Cardinal was waiting for the effect of that poisoned wine, but it seemed to have none whatever on the Pope who had drunk it without water. He continued to a
muse the company with his brilliant conversation and when he left both he and Cesare seemed unaffected.
All through the next day—it was the 11th of August—the Cardinal waited in vain for news from the Vatican of the Pope’s death. He called on the Pope to find that Alexander was his jovial self.
Is it true, wondered the Cardinal, that these Borgias have supernatural powers? Are they really in league with the devil?
The Pope awoke early on the morning of the 13th August. For the moment he could not remember where he was. He tried to rise and as he did so was stricken with a terrible pain in his abdomen.
He called to his attendants, who came running to his bedside.
“Holiness,” they began, and stopped, to stare at him.
The Pope tried to demand why they stared, but he found it difficult to form the words.
“Help me … Help me … to rise,” he muttered.
But when they tried to obey him, he sank back swooning on the bed, and for some minutes he lay there, the sweat pouring from his body, the pain so overwhelming him that he could think of little else.
Then that dominant will asserted itself, as always in moments of crisis it had. He lay very still, fighting pain and sickness, forcing himself to remember who he was: Alexander the invincible. Alexander who had conquered the Sacred College and ruled the Papacy, Alexander whose son was one day going to rule Italy and the world.
And because of that great power within him which he had nourished until he really believed it was invincible, Alexander triumphed over his pains. He began to think clearly of what had happened during the last few days, and he said to himself: “I have been poisoned.”
He thought of the supper party, of sly-eyed Corneto. Could it be possible that someone had blundered? Or was the blunder deliberate? He remembered the visit to the half-built palace, and how thirsty he had been. He remembered sitting at the table, and the slave who had handed him the wine.
Was it a mistake? If so … he was doomed. No, he was not. Other men might be. Not so Alexander. He could not die yet. He dared not die. Cesare, not yet secure in Romagna, needed him. Lucrezia needed him. How would she be treated in far-off Ferrara if her father was not waiting to avenge any insult directed against her? He must not die.
The pain was coming in waves, and he knew he was fighting with Cantarella, that old friend turned enemy.
He stammered: “Go to the Duke of Romagna, and bid him come to me. I must have speech with him at once.”
He was trying to concentrate on the fight, but the enemy was a bitter one.
Cantarella seemed to be mocking him: Now you know, Holiness, how it has been with others. This torment was inflicted a hundred times on your enemies. Now, by some fluke of fortune, it is for you to suffer.
Never, thought the Pope. It shall not happen to me. Nothing can defeat me. I have risen above all my difficulties. Corneto shall suffer for this. When Cesare comes.…
Men were coming into the room but Cesare was not with them. Where was Cesare?
Someone was bending over the bed. His voice sounded like a whisper, then a roar.
“Most Holy lord, the Duke of Romagna is sick … even as is Your Holiness.”
Cesare, twisting in agony on his bed, cried out: “Where is my father? Bring him to me. This instant, I tell you. If he is not here within five minutes someone shall suffer.” But his voice had sunk to a whisper and those about his bedside looked on, feigning horror; they believed that Cesare Borgia was on his death-bed.
“My lord Duke, the Pope has sent for you. He cannot come to you. He too is sick.”
The words danced in Cesare’s brain like mocking devils. “He too is sick.” So they had both drunk of the wrong wine. He remembered even as his father had. The thirst after the visit to the half-finished palace in the Borgo Nuovo, the pleasure of the shady vineyard, and the cool sweet wine.
He tried to rouse himself. A trick had been played, a foul trick, he thought. He wanted vengeance.
He cried: “Send for Cardinal Corneto. I would speak with him. Bring him to me at once. Tell him it would be wiser for him not to delay.… Holy Mother of God …” he whispered, “this agony … it is hell … surely hell.”
The news was brought to him. “Cardinal Corneto cannot wait on your lordship. He is confined to his bed with a sickness similar to your own.”
Cesare buried his face in his pillows. Someone had blundered.
There were whispers throughout Rome.
“The Pope is dying.”
Outside the Vatican the citizens waited. When the moment came they would rush into the papal apartments and strip them of their treasures. There were usually riots in Rome when a Pope died, and this one was the richest of all Popes.
All through that day they waited, the question on every lip: “How fares His Holiness?”
He was fighting, they heard, fighting, with all his fierce energy, for his life. They were not normal, these Borgias; they had made a pact with the devil. Clearly the Pope and his son had taken a dose of their own medicine; who could say whether that dose had been intended for them or whether they had taken it by mistake? That was of no moment now. The important matter was that Alexander was dying.
And in his apartments immediately above those of his father, the dreaded Cesare Borgia was fighting for his life.
Great days were about to begin in Rome.
Cesare could hear the murmur of prayers in the apartment below him. Down there men were praying for the Pope’s life. He was ill, on the borders of death, and even his giant constitution was weakening.
Cesare lay weak with pain, refusing to think of death, wondering what he would do if his father died. He was no fool. He knew that he had been bolstered up by his father’s power, his father’s wealth; he knew that when towns opened their gates to him it was not entirely due to his own military skill or the fear he had contrived to instil; it was the knowledge of the power of the Papacy.
If that power ceased, what would happen to Cesare Borgia? Whom could he trust? He could not leave his bed, but he guessed that even now people were gathering outside the Vatican, that many a man and woman in the city was praying for his death.
Never had he felt so weak as he did at that time, never had he been so certain of all he owed to his father.
There were two men in his room now. He called to them and they came and stood beside his bed. One was his younger brother Goffredo, and it was gratifying to see the anguish in Goffredo’s eyes. Goffredo, whose wife had been Cesare’s mistress, had the Borgia devotion to the family; to him the most important person in the world was Cesare. There were tears now in Goffredo’s eyes, and he was not wondering what would become of himself if Cesare and his father died; he was grieving for his brother.
“Brother,” said Cesare, “come closer. You see me prostrate here when I should be on my feet. You see me sick when I have need of all my strength.”
Goffredo cried: “I will be your strength, brother. But command me and I will obey.”
“May the saints preserve you, Borgia brother.”
Goffredo’s eyes shone with pride, as they always did when he was called Borgia. The greatest insult that could be hurled at him was to suggest that he did not belong to that family.
“Who is that in the shadows, brother?” asked Cesare.
“Your good servant, Don Micheletto Corella.”
“Ah,” said Cesare, “bid him come forward.”
Micheletto Corella knelt by the bed and took Cesare’s hand. “My lord, I am yours to command.”
“How fares my father?” said Cesare. “Come, I would have the truth. Do not seek to soothe me. This is no time to soothe.”
“He is very sick.”
“Sick unto death?” demanded Cesare.
“Were he an ordinary man, one would say so. But His Holiness is superhuman. It is said there is a slight hope that he will throw off the effects of the poison.”
“God grant he will. Oh my father, you must not die.”
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��He’ll not die,” cried Goffredo. “Borgias do not die.”
“If it is humanly possible to survive, he will do it,” said Cesare. “But we must be ready for whatever should happen. If my father dies, you must immediately get possession of the keys to the vaults, and my father’s treasure must be carried to a safe place. Brother, my friend, if my father should die, you must get those keys before the people know. Once they have stormed the Vatican there will be no hope of saving my father’s treasures.”
“I will do that, my lord,” answered Corella.
“And in the meantime my father and I must appear to be recovering. Do not tell any how sick we are. Say that we have had a slight attack of fever, probably due to the poisonous August air.”
“Many who were at the Corneto party have taken to their beds. The Cardinal is saying that it is due to the poison in the air, and that the sooner Leonardo da Vinci, your fortress engineer, can do something about his drains, the better.”
“Let them say that. So other guests are afflicted, eh? But not as my father is … not as I am. I find that very suspicious. But say nothing. Tell all that we are recovering. Listen! Who is that coming?”
“Some of the Cardinals from the Sacred College; they come to ask after you and the Pope.”
“Prop me up,” said Cesare. “They must not know how sick I am. Come … we will laugh and chat together. It must be as though in a few days I shall leave my bed.”
The Cardinals came in. They had visited the Pope, and the disappointed expressions on their faces made Cesare feel exultant; it seemed that Alexander too had realized the importance of impressing them with the belief that he and his son were suffering from a slight malaise from which they would soon recover.
Such was Alexander’s strength of mind and body that, only two days after he drank the poisoned wine, he was able to sit up in his bed and play cards with members of his household.
