The Fall of the House of Borgia

by E R Chamberlin

  Fornovo was hailed by the Italians as an important victory, a stirring demonstration of the effect of national unity against the barbarians from beyond the Alps. The Italians were, in fact, badly mauled, and Ludovico Sforza personally demonstrated the efficacy of Italian unity by making his own treaty with Charles: the French were to forget that embarrassing claim to Milan, and Ludovico would help Charles in the next round against Naples. It so happened that on the very day of Fornovo, Ferrantino returned to Naples amid the practiced cheers of the Neapolitans, an event which seemed to hammer home the fact that the first French invasion had ended in total failure and humiliation. Nevertheless, the French carried home with them not only the memory of Italian mockery but the knowledge, too, that Italians were their own worst enemies; that Italy would fall prize to whoever could exploit the Italian genius for dissension.

  7 The Rise of Cesare Borgia

  Cardinal Cesare Borgia was just twenty-one years old when Fornovo seemed to signal the end of foreign intervention in Italy. Ever since his brother Juan had left for Spain he had had good reason to believe that his father was at last contemplating a change in their roles. Alexander could hardly help turning to the vigorous, intelligent elder son, physically present in Rome, when problems of state arose that affected the Borgia dynasty as well as the papacy. More and more Cesare came to believe that responsibility for the Italian affairs of the family would, eventually, be placed in his hands while Juan, perhaps, continued to handle the Spanish aspects. The public knew little about Cesare apart from the fact that, as a cardinal, he took part in a number of religious ceremonies. Nevertheless, those at the center of things who were sensitive to the meaning of the minutiae of protocol were aware of his increasing importance in Vatican affairs. He was very rarely far from his father; he

  had been created a legate; he had abandoned the palace that had been bought for him to take up residence in the Vatican. The rooms allocated to him were above the great chambers painted by Pinturicchio, and they formed a ceremonial suite which allowed him to receive important guests as though he were a prince. The number and stature of those guests reflected his own increasing influence, ambassadors as well as fellow cardinals thinking it politic to bend the knee to the young man whose priest's tonsure was utterly at variance with his splendid layman's costume. It seemed to the hypersensitive courtiers that Cesare had at last got his way, that the tonsure was as irrelevant in theory as in fact, and that Cesare Borgia was moving slowly but steadily toward a purely secular career.

  Then in August 1496 he was again eclipsed by his brother Juan. Alexander had at last felt himself free to begin the extermination of the Roman barons—those fetters of the pope, as he called them—and summoned his beloved second son from Spain to undertake the task.

  The Orsini were slated as the first victims, for it had been they who had opened the road to the French and openly allied themselves with Charles. The expedition against them was launched with a ceremonial and solemnity that better befitted the opening of a major crusade than the continuation of a dynastic struggle for a few square miles of territory. It ended in fiasco for, despite Juan Borgia's resounding titles of gonfaloniere of Holy Church and commander of the papal host, he was still a feckless, inexperienced young man and the Orsini were veterans in this kind of warfare. A prolonged siege of Bracciano, their great fortress on its beautiful lake to the north of Rome, was abandoned in disarray; and in a counterattack upon the papal forces in the field, Juan was slightly wounded and promptly fled back to Rome.

  Juan's humiliation was equalled by his father's fear for, suddenly, the military situation seemed as threatening as it had a year earlier. The Orsini believed, with justice, that they were fighting for their continued existence. Too, there remained strong pockets of French resistance, survivors of Charles's expedition who had dug themselves into fortified cities, and the two in combination could yet break the Borgia grip on Rome. Ostia, Rome's port, was still in the hands of a French garrison; and now with a land blockade added to the sea blockade Rome took on the character of a beleaguered city. Alexander despatched a call for help to the Spanish monarchs, and they authorized their commander in Italy, Gonzalo de Cordoba, to march to his aid. Gonzalo hastened north from his base near Naples and in a short but bloody engagement he threw the French out of Ostia. Italy's helplessness was never better demonstrated than in this assault upon Ostia when foreigners hurled themselves on foreigners in Rome's defense. Gonzalo's tiny force was wholly Spanish. Even the reinforcements he was able to pick up in Rome were Spanish, for Garcilaso de la Vega, the Spanish ambassador in the Vatican, threw aside his protected status and with a handful of volunteers marched with his compatriots. Gonzalo, on his return to Rome, was hailed hysterically as savior of the city by Romans who could see nothing unusual, nothing sinister in the fact that only a Spaniard had the ability to defend them. Alexander welcomed Gonzalo in the Borgia Apartments, gave him the Golden Rose—and at the same time created his discredited, incompetent son Juan duke of Benevento, investing him with territories that Gonzalo's skill and courage had gained for the Holy See.

  It is probable that this event marked the beginning of the deterioration of Alexander's vital relationship with Spain, for Gonzalo bitterly resented the beggarly reward for saving Rome. The event also denoted the fact that Alexander considered nothing to be unjust or ludicrous if it led to the aggrandizement of his children. His attempt to eradicate the Roman baronies was, in Roman eyes, both praiseworthy and expected. Successive popes had struggled with the task of suppressing this greedy, unscrupulous class which regarded Rome as its personal property, and whose virtuous condemnation of the papal monarch was largely the product of envy. Alexander's decision to create a Borgia barony was, in the Roman view, again to be expected, for those cynical eyes had long ceased to observe the fine distinction between the pope as papal monarch and as head of a dynasty. But Gonzalo de Cordoba was a Spaniard newly arrived from a country that still bore the scars of its long battle with the archenemy of Christianity, a provincial who lacked the practiced Roman ability to reconcile the irreconcilable, a Christian who could still be shocked by the antics of Christianity's priest. He also happened to be perhaps the greatest living general in Europe, a man who combined the chivalry and courtesy of the fast-vanishing breed of Christian knights with a flexibility of intellect amounting to genius, that enabled him to exploit the new forms of weapons and warfare and thus dominate in a tradition-bound field. Finally, de Cordoba was not only the general of Their Catholic Majesties but also the friend and confidant of Queen Isabella, the dominant member of that Spanish partnership, who already nursed a suspicion and dislike of Alexander Borgia that was only imperfectly concealed. Burchard assumed that de Cordoba's resentment was aroused by the contrast between his reward for saving

  Rome and Juan Borgia's reward merely for being Juan Borgia—a pretty, perfumed metal flower worth a few hundred ducats compared to the reward of a dukedom. Burchard was probably right, but de Cordoba's personal resentment resulting from the shabby incident was, in the long run, far less important than the effect it had made on him as a loyal and experienced Spanish statesman. The arms of Spain, it seemed, were being employed not in the defense of an independent papacy which could hold the balance of power in Italy, but simply to bolster up yet another Italian princeling. It was a piece of information, from an unimpeachable source, which Queen Isabella received with great interest.

  Gonzalo's resentment and disquiet were shared by Cesare, although for a totally different reason. There was now no doubt whatever that the incompetent Juan was indeed intended by their father to play that role which Cesare passionately desired and could fulfill far more adequately. Juan was already established as a duke in Spain, possessed of a loving wife who had already given him two children—and one of them the vital son—to perpetuate the Borgia dynasty. And now he was to be established in Italy. The rivalry between the brothers, hidden while Alexander had control of Cesare, dormant while Juan was in Spain, now became
so obvious and so ferocious it figured in the despatches of resident ambassadors as news of sufficient political importance to pass on to their masters. Then, in June, a bitter edge was added to the rivalry when Cesare was made the instrument to secure for Juan the newly awarded dukedom of Benevento to be carved out of the kingdom of Naples. Natural death had contributed to the already dizzy twists and turns of Neapolitan politics. Ferrantino, the last king, had died after a reign of little more than a year and his uncle and successor, Federigo, eagerly agreed to Juan's dukedom in exchange for his own recognition as king. Defying the College of Cardinals and the Spanish ambassador, Alexander nominated Cesare as his legate to perform Federigo's coronation in Naples. It was an honorable distinction for a young man who had made no particular mark as a papal statesman. But Cesare was perfectly well aware that as a result of his legateship, Juan would be established as a powerful territorial lord not, as hitherto, in a distant land, but in Italy itself, while Cesare himself remained a purely ceremonial figure. Nevertheless, he seems to have hidden his thoughts with his customary skill, preparing for the splendid ceremony as though outward form were all that mattered.

  Cesare maintained his equanimity at the small family party which his mother Vannozza gave on the evening of June 14, 1497, at her villa near the baths of Diocletian. It was an intimate and sober affair, attended only by Juan, Cesare, their cousin, Cardinal Juan Borgia-Lanzo, and one or two family friends. The party broke up before midnight, the guests parted amicably, and Juan was never again seen alive. On the morning of June 16, his body, frenziedly hacked and with the hands tied, was fished out of the Tiber.

  The murder of Juan, duke of Gandia, duke of Benevento, lord of Terracina and Pontecorvo, gonfalonier of Holy Church, might have been designed as a key scene by a master dramatist, for it contained within it all the contradictory elements that were to make the Borgia story one of the great legends of Europe. The murder occurred at the precise moment needed to free Cesare and place him on his desired path, yet it is impossible to prove his responsibility. Details of the murder were subjected to an immediate and lasting blaze of publicity, yet its origins remain rooted in impenetrable obscurity. Its motives can be ascribed equally to political, sexual, dynastic, or frankly personal hatred. Persons closest remained silent, those more distant evolved their own explanations to account for the contradictions, and out of those contortions arose legend that fatally besmirched the moral character of the entire family even while it gave Cesare almost superhuman stature.

  Juan's movements on the last night of his life and, probably, up to a few hours before his death are known. He, Cesare, their cousin Cardinal Juan and their attendants rode back from Vannozza's villa in the suburbs and remained in company until they reached Alexander's old house, now the residence of the vice-chancellor, Ascanio Sforza. There Juan parted, but not alone. Accompanying him were his servant and a man wearing one of the common festive masks. This man's name and identity are unknown; but he must have been known by face at least to the Borgia family, for Burchard reported that he had been Juan's constant companion over the past month or so. Why no search was ever made for this mysterious masked man is only one of the enigmatic aspects of the murder.

  Leaving his companions, Juan had declared he was headed for an assignation with a certain Madonna Damiata, according to subsequent accounts. His household, therefore, was not troubled by his absence and even Alexander, when the fact was reported to him later in the day, was unworried, for he assumed that Juan was discreetly remaining in hiding until darkness. Late that afternoon, however, Juan's horse was discovered wandering riderless, one stirrup cut off as though by a sword-blow. At the same time, it was reported that the servant accompanying Juan had died from terrible wounds received during the night. Supposedly, the man had been discovered shortly after daybreak and died without speaking after his removal to a house. Again, it is inexplicable why news of a mortally wounded servant wearing Juan's livery was not conveyed to the Vatican until several hours after the man's discovery. He was found not in a back alley but in the busy Piazza della Giudecca, and he must therefore either have lain dying in front of dozens of passers-by, or those who found him at dawn kept the news to themselves for some unknown reason.

  The discovery of the horse and the dying servant placed a sinister interpretation on Juan's absence and, thoroughly alarmed now, Alexander ordered the most rigorous search made. The search did not, apparently, disclose the whereabouts of the masked man nor of a group of men supposed to have been seen loitering near Juan about half an hour after he left his companions; but it did bring to light a man who gave a curiously detailed account of an event he had witnessed the night before. Burchard gave the witness's name simply as Giorgio, describing him as a timber merchant who had a woodyard on the riverside. According to Giorgio, at about two o'clock on the morning of the murder he had seen a man on a white horse, accompanied by four men on foot who appeared to be his servants, approach the river with a dead man slung across the horse. Giorgio seems to have been remarkably well hidden and have had extremely good hearing and eyesight, for he described in some detail the conversation which passed between the men and the precise method by which they threw the body into the Tiber. The witness's account was vindicated when a massive dredging operation produced the corpse of Juan Borgia, still dressed in its finery, including valuable jewels, and with a purse of gold pieces intact on his belt.

  Such were the meager details which allowed only the sketchiest reconstruction of the murder. Presumably, Juan had been attacked sometime between midnight and 1:00 A.M. near the Piazza della Giudecca, where his servant had been left for dead. Juan's attackers must have been on foot, for a mounted troop would have attracted considerable attention at midnight, and he must therefore either have been led into an ambush—and the only person who could have so led him was the masked man—or the attackers were known to Juan and did not arouse his suspicions. He was seized, bound, conveyed to a private house, tortured there with a sword or dagger, and then slaughtered. His body was conveyed to the Tiber a little over an hour later.

  The contradictory elements in the story remain irreconcilable for posterity. Giorgio's lushly detailed account, contrasted with the paucity of all other information, sounds like a carefully rehearsed tale, even down to the reason why he had not bothered to report the matter. He had seen hundreds of corpses thrown into the river at that point, he claimed, and no one had ever troubled about them. Burchard, the prime witness, is silent, for his diary breaks off at this point. Meticulously he recorded Giorgio's dramatic evidence, the dredging of the Tiber, Alexander's passionate grief when the corpse was brought to the Vatican, the obsequies for the dead man. Then the diary breaks off and is not continued again until August, nearly four months later. The only certain deduction that can be made is that Juan's murder was not the result of a nocturnal brawl but a carefully planned and skillfully executed operation. But who profited?

  Alexander himself carefully named those he believed to be innocent but whom gossip had associated with the crime. For three days after the murder he was, quite literally, demented with grief. On the evening that Juan's body was borne across the Tiber for interment, his shrieks in the Vatican could be heard by members of the cortege as they crossed the bridge of Sant' Angelo. On June 19 he was sufficiently recovered to formally notify the College of Juan's death at a special consistory and to declare his intention of reforming the Church. His speech of penitence and remorse carried a ring of terrible sincerity that echoes even through the medium of the formal report of the Venetian ambassador who recorded it.

  The duke of Gandia is dead. A greater calamity could not have befallen us for we bore him unbounded affection. Life has lost all interest for us. It must be that God punishes us for our sins, for the duke has done nothing to deserve so terrible a fate. We are resolved without delay to think of the Church first and foremost, and not of ourselves nor of our privileges. We must begin by reforming ourselves.43

  The manner in which Alex
ander unbared his soul to the apprehensive college of cardinals, lacerating himself, gave the clearest possible evidence of the reason why he had so favored Juan: he loved his son with a fierce, all-consuming love. His speech also provided posterity with a brief and almost uniquely undistorted insight into the true character of the man himself. All other actions of Alexander can be shown as simply the product of a ravenous worldly ambition; his desire to reform both the Church and himself could spring from no other source but spiritual remorse. The immense psychic shock of Juan's death opened his eyes, if briefly, to what he had become, and his reaction was on a typically extravagant scale. It could not last. It was impossible for a man of sixty-seven not merely to abandon the habits of thought of a lifetime but to extricate himself from a situation that he had inherited with the tiara. But it showed that the spirit behind the splendid presence was not entirely atrophied, that under different circumstances he could have been a different man, and that it would not have been wholly blasphemous or ludicrous to predict that the Borgia family would, a generation later, give a saint to the Roman Church.

  As to the murder, Alexander specifically exculpated those upon whom suspicion had immediately fallen. First there was Guidobaldo Montefeltro, duke of Urbino, the gentle condottiere who had fought with Juan against the Orsini and who, through Juan's cowardice, had fallen into their hands and been abandoned by Alexander. Juan had received lavish honors but there was not, it seemed, sufficient money to pay Montefeltro's ransom and he had languished in prison until his fortunately loyal subjects raised the money themselves. But he was no murderer, declared Alexander, and neither was Ascanio Sforza nor his nephew Giovanni though both had motives. The whole Sforza clan had been caught up in the disgrace of the French fiasco. Ascanio himself, although the vice-chancellor, had briefly seen the inside of Sant' Angelo. In addition, he had recently quarreled furiously with Juan and altogether had thought it advisable not to attend this particular consistory.