59
April 6, 1527
The Via Flaminia is awash in the flood that deluged Roma this noon. But Lord Pirro of Bozzuolo, impervious to his splattered cloak, his lagging companion, and his weary horse, spurs the animal on faster, ever faster, through the river of mud. His weeks in the Imperial camp have turned him sour. He cannot wait to get home.
Pressing the horses to their limits, the weary riders manage to gain the Porta del Popolo just before it closes and to arrive at the Piazza S.S. Apostoli as the last rays of sun are falling behind the Janiculum hill.
“Go to your mother, Danilo,” Pirro instructs the boy gruffly but not unkindly. “I must pay my respects to Madonna Isabella.” Pirro Gonzaga may be more a soldier than a diplomat but he has a firm grasp of the etiquette of courts. He knows that, while his kinswoman plays at being a romantic, in her heart of hearts the forms of obeisance to her station take precedence over all, including the imperatives of true love. She would be seriously insulted if he were to pay his first respects to her confidential secretary rather than to herself. The best he can hope for is that she will let him off with a brief audience and not keep him nodding until midnight while his lady waits above.
The greeting he gets from his kinswoman does not encourage his hopes. Madonna Isabella’s eyes devour him with curiosity. And her manner indicates a willingness to stay up all night if need be as long as there is information to be extracted.
“Do not even waste a moment kissing me, cousin. Only answer the questions that have been burning in my brain.” This is his welcome after an absence of five weeks. Then she remembers herself and, in a most cursory manner, remarks, “I assume all went well. You look fit enough. Now tell me: Is Frundsberg really dead? Is my nephew Constable Bourbon in sole charge of the Imperial forces? Did you meet with him? What is his temper? He does not seriously intend to besiege Roma, does he?”
And to think that this woman has a reputation for subtlety.
“In answer to your first query, yes, Frundsberg is dead,” he replies in a manner as direct as her own. “To the second, also yes. Your nephew is the sole commander of the Imperials now. Spaniards, landsknechts, and whatever Italians remain in the Emperor’s hire all fall under his command. Third, I did meet with Constable Bourbon. Fourth, he informed me — and I believe him — that the Emperor has authorized him to do whatever he likes in Italy, including an attack on Roma if he feels strong enough for it. As to whether he intends to use that authority, all I can tell you is that he has doubled the price for moving his troops out of Italy. He is now asking a quarter of a million ducats.”
Isabella shivers. Even she, a celebrated spender of money, is intimidated by such a sum.
“And what course will you advise the Holy Father to follow when you convey Bourbon’s new terms to him?”
“Pay it,” he answers without a moment’s hesitation. “Pay it before he goes to three hundred thousand. And pay it to Bourbon himself, not to the Emperor’s viceroy.”
“Well, the Pope has made a different plan. The viceroy left two days ago for Firenze to collect enough Florentine gold to bribe the Germans away.”
Pirro’s heart sinks. “How much is he offering Bourbon?” he asks.
“One hundred and fifty thousand.”
Pirro sighs wearily. “As usual, too little and too late.”
“Oh, do not be so sad, cousin.” She chucks him under the chin fondly. “Tell me, does the Emperor continue to send supplies and money to his army?”
“Not a penny, not a man, not a joint of meat nor a single weapon,” he answers. “Bourbon swore it to me.”
“That confirms my suspicions. It is the stratagem of starving the lion before he enters the arena. These moves are tactics, feints of the épée if you like.”
“To what end?”
“Do you not see it? The Emperor’s object is to get hold of enough money to pay his troops and to wring from the Pope the most favorable terms possible. Only then will he call off his dogs.”
“And that day will be . . .”
“The day our poor Pope against all his better instincts is forced to sell off a few red hats,” she replies.
“He swears he would rather give up the Holy See than sell cardinalates.”
“But sell them he will,” Isabella replies. “Oh, he will kick and he will squirm, but the Emperor will keep threatening him with Bourbon’s army and one day very soon a messenger will come to my door with word that his Holiness has graciously consented to bestow upon my honorable son Ercole the red hat of a cardinal of the Holy Church. And I — along with heads of the Accioli, the Gaddi, the Spinola and the Grimani families — will dig into my strongbox and retrieve the ducats I have kept sequestered for just this purpose. And I will ask you, my loyal and trusted kinsman, to deliver forty thousand ducats into the Pontiff’s hands — his and no others — and to bring me back a box with a red hat in it.”
She pauses to take a deep breath — her great bulk prevents her from breathing as easily during her long elocutions as she used to do when she was younger — then continues in a low, almost conspiratorial voice: “I swore to my son the Marchese Federico that I would not leave Roma without the red hat for his brother Ercole. I have waited two long years. But I always knew the day would come. And so it will. On that day, cousin, I will leave this city and not before.”
Three days later, the Emperor’s viceroy, Lannoy, arrives at a little town some thirty leagues from Firenze with orders for the great army which it is his mission to satisfy and dismiss. He carries with him in a brassbound oak chest 150,000 gold ducats, most of them contributed by the Florentines, fearful that their city will be sacked if the Imperials are not paid off.
Heavy downfalls of rain have turned the Imperial camp into a swamp. Lannoy cannot help but notice the condition of the men, their clothes in tatters, many without shoes, all sullen and angry-looking. He was told in Firenze that these men have taken to prowling the countryside like packs of emaciated crows, grabbing whatever stray bit of bread they can out of the mouths of peasants too startled and frightened to resist.
“And you tell me that these men are to be thrust out of Italy like beggars with no more than the pay that was owing them two months ago!” Bourbon emits a sharp bark that parades as a laugh.
“Those are the terms of the truce agreed upon by the Pope and the Emperor. Do I take it that you refuse my order to abide by them?” Lannoy asks mildly, appearing not to care overmuch what answer he gets.
“It is the men who refuse.” Bourbon corrects the viceroy. “Have I not made myself clear, Lannoy? This is no longer an army of soldiers. It is a land armada of pirates, long severed from their Emperor. We have turned them into freebooters whose only loyalty is to their own skins. All that keeps them together now is the belief that in Firenze or Roma they will find warmth, food, wine, and riches beyond their dreams.”
The viceroy is not moved by Bourbon’s impassioned speech. He rises to his feet and signals to his aide to pick up the oak chest.
“In that case, Constable Bourbon, there is no more to be said. His Holiness has assured me that the hundred and fifty thousand ducats I bring to you today represent the last of his resources. In his own words, it would be as easy for him to join heaven and earth together as to raise another ducat.” With that he bows low in the Spanish fashion and takes his leave.
That night Bourbon and his captains convene to debate whether or not to attempt a siege of Firenze. The attack would drain the strength they need to reach Roma. Still, the city is a close and tempting target for the weary, footsore army.
In the midst of their deliberations a messenger arrives with a bizarre piece of intelligence. The Duke of Urbino has arrived at the gates of Firenze at the head of the Pope’s forces, with an offer to defend the city against Bourbon’s Imperials.
At first the Imperial staff takes the dispatch for some kind of joke. Urbino
has chased Bourbon’s tail all the way down the Apennines, managing with great deftness never to engage with him. Now, suddenly, this reluctant commander seems to have hauled his army to the site of a battle and is even offering to fight. Incredible though it is, the intelligence is confirmed before dawn. Thus Bourbon’s decision is made for him. Backed up by Urbino’s army, Firenze is no longer a soft target. The Imperials have no choice. Without a dissenting voice, the captains vote to bypass Firenze. On to Roma!
The next day, Bourbon’s army breaks camp and swings out across the Arno down the Val d’Ombra into the state of Siena, which has promised them hospitality. There, over the curses and mumbled threats of the entire force, Bourbon abandons his carriages, heavy baggage, light artillery, and camp followers, save for three prostitutes per company. By a series of forced marches of incredible hardship, the Imperials reach Viterbo on the second day of May. There, a mere fifty miles from Roma, they can all but smell the women and taste the wine and count the ducats that will rain down on them after they have scaled the walls of the Holy City. Newly infused with hope, they hit the road next morning like a pack of wild dogs, and God help the poor bastards who get in their way.
With the enemy almost literally at the gates, the Pope has become strong and decisive. After indulging in months of self-deception, he has finally allowed himself to think the unthinkable: that within two or three days, his city may be under siege. As Madonna Isabella d’Este predicted, he is left with no way to finance the defense of his city but the practice he detests above all: simony, the sale of offices of the church. His captain, Renzo da Ceri, has guaranteed that two hundred thousand ducats will buy enough troops to make the city impregnable.
On May 3, saying he would rather lose his right hand than do so, he nominates five new cardinals on condition they provide him with forty thousand gold ducats each. In an hour, Madonna Isabella d’Este da Gonzaga has placed the required ducats in the hands of her trusted kinsman Lord Pirro Gonzaga with strict instructions to deliver them into no other hands than the Pontiff’s own. By the day’s end, each of the nominees has graciously taken up the Pope’s offer. The total amount raised — two hundred thousand ducats — is fifty thousand more than Bourbon demanded less than a month before to satisfy his army and turn them back over the Alps.
His mission accomplished, Lord Pirro guides his mount back from the Vatican to the Colonna Palace. Under his arm he balances a large, round hatbox — in it, the red hat destined to grace the head of Ercole, as of this day Cardinal Gonzaga. Lord Pirro also carries concealed on his person a document signed by his master, Pope Clement VII, offering two hundred thousand ducats to redeem Roma from the Emperor’s troops. His orders are to ride out at dawn to the Imperial camp at Viterbo and deliver the offer to Constable Bourbon personally. If the offer is refused, he is to proceed directly to Urbino’s camp south of Firenze.
Time is of the essence. But midway across the Ponte Elio, Lord Pirro reins in his horse for a moment of reflection. On his right the Ponte Sisto forms a sturdy arch against the darkening sky. Built by that prodigious papal builder Julius II, it is the first bridge to span the Tiber since ancient times. Lord Pirro looks down into the murky brown river. What he sees pleases him. Fast-flowing water. Whirling eddies that augur treacherous currents. When the Tiber lies low and runs sluggish, a man or a horse can make his way across with little danger of drowning. But turbulent and strong as it is now, the river presents an almost impenetrable barrier to the old Roman city.
If I were in command here, thinks Pirro, I would blow those bridges tomorrow without waiting to see if Bourbon accepts the Pope’s bribe. That way the heart of Roma will be protected no matter what. Of course it is unthinkable that Bourbon will refuse the Pope’s offer. But what if . . .
A trained soldier has a mind conditioned to think in terms of contingencies. What if the Imperial troops have been so maddened by hunger and rage they refuse their leader’s order to turn back? What if they press Bourbon to attack Roma? What if they succeed by a superhuman act of will in scaling the thick walls? What if they take the Vatican palace and occupy the Borgo? Even so, the river will stop them from piercing the heart of Roma . . . once the bridges are blown. Yes, if I were in command here, I would most definitely blow those bridges, thinks Pirro.
The horse kicks his right front shoe impatiently on the cobbles. It is getting late and, in his horsey way, he is signaling it is time to go home. But the rider is not ready. He is still nagged by the question what if? What if, against all the odds, the Imperials do penetrate the heart of the city where his lady and his son live under the protection of the Marchesana Isabella? If they stand in peril, where does his duty lie? With his master, the Pope, or with those he has promised to love, cherish, and protect? In sum, can he in conscience ride off tomorrow morning and leave them to whatever fate and the Holy Roman Emperor have in store for Roma?
Grazia has always been an early riser but this morning she is at her desk even earlier than usual, writing by candlelight before sunup. Back to the quill and the inky fish. Back to the pristine vellum pages.
“My beloved son and confidant,” she writes.
“When I told you in these pages that I had reached the end of my ricordanza and that all my secrets had been told, I did not reckon with the events of this night, which draws to a close as I write. You now know the disappointments, deceptions, and betrayals that have for so long tainted my love for Lord Pirro. Tonight all these were expunged, for tonight he laid before me a proof of constancy beyond all doubt.
“Under orders to ride north to the Imperial camp and beyond if need be to beg reinforcements, he informed me that he would not go, that he could not leave us — you and me — bereft of his protection in this uncertain time. Think of it. For us, he was willing to sacrifice his career, his reputation, his conscience, and his honor. In the face of this sacrifice, any lingering doubts that remained buried in my heart burst out and flew away. I am decided. I will marry him. This time there will be no turning back.
“Of course, I cannot allow him to make a ruin of his life for our sake by defecting from his duty. He must go as he is ordered to do. I have promised that I will marry him on the day of his return. In his absence I will prepare myself for a Christian marriage by being baptized. At last Madama will have her chance to stand beside me at the font and become her sister in Christ.
“As for my promise to Judah that I would wait a full year, I have given him half of his twelve months. More I cannot afford. We live in precarious times. Life is short and pleasure fleeting, as the magnificent Lorenzo taught us in his laud. The dishonor that falls on me for breaking my word to Judah and his disappointment in me, I can bear. It is you who are most dear to him. Me, he lost long ago.
“The moment I made my decision a great heaviness was lifted off me. This is not a matter of whether I be Jew or Christian or whether Roma or Constantinople is the safer haven. It is a matter of the heart. Quite simply Pirro Gonzaga is the only man in the world for me and ever has been. And this decision brings to me the promise of a happiness I have dreamed of since I was a girl.
“We will marry by special dispensation the day he returns from Urbino’s camp. On the same day he will acknowledge you as his son. But I am not to tell you of it. He wishes to reserve that pleasure for himself.
“The only blot on this fair horizon is that damn Bourbon and his army. There does remain a stray chance that, as my beloved brother Maestro Vitale would have put it, the planets that oversee our lives may come into disastrous collision, and that we will be caught in a city under siege. Should such a catastrophe occur, I swear to you as I swore to Lord Pirro that not the Pope’s stinginess nor the Emperor’s venality nor Bourbon’s extraordinary soldiering nor any other act of man or nature will break my will to marry. If siege there be, you and I will withstand it. When the opportunity comes, we will escape. And I will keep my vow unto death to the man I love that when next we meet, I will become his w
ife.
“I beg your blessing on this enterprise.”
Now that Marchesana Isabella has the red hat in her possession and is prepared to leave Roma, the roads are no longer safe for travel. She can afford to be amused by the irony. Her good sense tells her that very soon now the Imperial army will approach the walls of the city, blow loudly on their trumpets, make their final demand, grab the enormous bonus that their Emperor has so cleverly negotiated, and march away rich and happy.
In case for any reason this scenario does not play out, Isabella has prudently made contact with her nephew Constable Bourbon, Commander of the Imperial Forces, and with her son Ferrante, a captain in that same army, and been reassured by both that her comfort and safety will be their first concern when — neither gentleman admits to if — they take the city.
Was ever a woman better situated to withstand the rigors of a sack?
FROM DANILO’S ARCHIVE
TO THE HONORABLE DUKE CHARLES OF BOURBON, CONSTABLE, ETC., IN THE FIELD AT MONTE MARIO
Most esteemed nephew:
I thank you exceedingly for your expression of concern for our safety and must tell you, in return, of my admiration for the honor and glory you are gaining in the service of His Imperial Majesty, Charles V.
Those of us here behind the walls of Roma continue to hope for a truce between your Imperial master and the Holy Father, but, as you remind me in your most gracious letter, it is prudent to prepare for the worst while hoping for the best.
In accordance with your advice I have garrisoned this palace, not forgetting a special guard for the well. We are bountifully provisioned and prepared to await rescue at your hands should matters come to that. I commend myself to your protection and my dear Ferrante to your care.
Isabella, Marchesana, etc., Colonna Palace, Roma, May 5, 1527.
TO CAPTAIN FERRANTE GONZAGA, IN THE FIELD AT MONTE MARIO
The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi Page 65
