Blood & Beauty (36 page)

They say that the blacksmith who made Caterina Sforza’s battle dress was invited into her bedroom so that there could be no mistakes in his measurements. Anyone who has seen her in her armour would agree that her engraved breastplate fits her womanly body most eloquently. They say that sometimes she wears the breastplate with nothing but silk petticoats underneath, and that they blow up in the winds as she strides across the battlements. This last fact is said with particular confidence, because it is a well-known story that ten years ago, when the city of Forlì rebelled against her rule, murdering her husband and holding her and her children hostage, she managed to escape and make her way into her fortress, where she paraded herself on the battlements, lifting up her skirts and shouting to the conspirators below.

‘You think I care what you do with them? Look – I have the means to make many more.’

By then she was twenty-six and already famous. As the illegitimate granddaughter of the warrior Francesco Sforza she had been excellent marriage fodder for one of the great families. She had been nineteen when the death of Pope Sixtus IV had triggered a wave of carnage in Rome, much of it directed at her new husband, the Pope’s nephew. As the mob attacked their palace, she had saddled up a horse and galloped, seven months pregnant, through rioting streets across the bridge to take Castel Sant’ Angelo and hold it against all comers till her husband arrived back in town. That and many other remarkable exploits have earned her the soubriquet of ‘Virago’. For most women it would feel like a term of abuse, denoting manliness in body as well as temperament, but Caterina Sforza rejoices in it. She has never been one for simpering or blushing; as she soon discovered, a woman who finds herself ruling over men is better served by fear than courtesy.

At thirty-six, she has outlived three husbands and given birth to nine children, the last still a baby. She has survived more than one rebellion and her appetite for revenge is legendary. When the killers of her first husband escaped the city, she punished their eighty-year-old father instead. In a display of imaginative cruelty she had the sick old man tied to a plank behind a horse, his head dangling free, then sent the animal galloping round and round the city’s cobblestoned piazza. But while she is without mercy to those who oppose her, they say that when the right man desires her she can be as seductive as a siren, with a cat-purr voice and skin soft as sable fur. Such beauty, they say, comes from her practice of the dark arts of nature: unguents, oils and pills which she concocts herself, keeping her secrets in a book hidden under her pillows at night. She can make dark skin pale and black hair blonde, and whiten the foulest of teeth with a paste of ground marble and charcoal. She has recipes to help make babies and others to wash unwanted ones away. They say the bottles lined up along her shelves contain aphrodisiacs, poisons and perfumes, but that only she knows which ones are safe and which lethal, for they carry no labels, and that when she starts to prepare death for someone, the man or woman for whom it is intended feels a terrible shiver run through them, as if they have already been touched by the clammy cold of the grave.

Or so they say.

They say a great many things about Caterina Sforza. But though there is much fun to be had making up gossip about bad women, the most amazing fact of all is that much of what they say is true.

In the second week of November, as the Sistine Chapel plays host to cardinals, diplomats and noble Roman families, all craning their necks to witness the baptism of the Pope’s beloved new grandchild, the Virago of Imola and Forlì (who of course is not on the guest list) is busy dictating a letter to be signed by her most prominent citizens.

‘But my lady, this is a petition offering the surrender of both your cities to the Holy Father, the Pope!’

‘Well done, Signor Naldi. I always knew you could read, but it is your signature that I am after now,’ she says sweetly.

When she has all the signatures she needs, she takes the parchment into her dispensary and with a needle pricks dozens of holes, so fine as to be invisible, on to its surface. Then, putting on gloves, from a leather pouch she extracts a generous square of cream muslin, marred by a number of small marks and stains. She sprinkles lavender essence to counteract its rankness and then presses the parchment into it, carefully rolling it up in the material until it is encased within it. She slides the package into a cane tube and returns to her council chamber.

It will arrive too late for the papal christening, but then Caterina Sforza’s gift is not intended for the baby.

‘I swear I felt something; it was on the evening of the baptism. A deep shiver – tremor, more like – through my whole body. Burchard was standing next to me. He says my skin was white as chalk and my eyes went blank. He moved people away so I could get some air. I may have even lost my wits for an instant. That must have been when she was preparing it.’

‘It could be that you were drained from the festivities.’

Cesare, who has as little time for witchcraft as he has for miracles, is suppressing his own exhaustion. He had been camped outside Bologna, days away from the march on Imola, when the news of an attempt on his father’s life had reached him. He and Michelotto have ridden two days and nights to get to Rome, entering the city incognito and brought secretly into the Pope’s private apartments. It is hardly the triumphant homecoming he had envisioned for himself after so long away.

‘Whatever it was, the Virago wanted me dead. The gall of it! To try to poison the Pope.’ Now he is safe Alexander is rather enjoying the drama of it all.

‘Desperation, Father, not gall. Even if this so-called assassin had delivered the petition, you would never have opened it yourself. It would have gone to one of the secretaries first.’

‘But they would have handed it on to me. The contagion would still have worked. She may be desperate, but the woman has never been a fool.’

Certainly it had been a clever idea: a citizens’ petition wrapped in cloth cut from the shroud of a man who had just died from the plague, the fabric still rich with his sweat and pus. Had it found its way into the Pope’s hands it would have done the job most admirably: no foaming at the mouth, no fire in the throat or pitchforks in the gut, nothing indeed to give her away. Instead, a few days later, His Holiness would have developed a raging fever and the telltale eruptions of the skin. It would have seemed like the hand of God placed on a man’s shoulder – for who can really know His ways, and why or how the plague singles out one over another? What everybody does know, however, is that with Alexander dead, the ambitions of his son would have crumbled into the dust.

‘This would-be assassin. Where is he now?’

‘He is residing in the dungeons of Sant’ Angelo.’

They had been lucky. The chosen messenger had turned out to be a lesser man than his mistress: far from a professional killer, Tommaso da Forlì was a lukewarm patriot who earned his living as a singer and musician in Jofré’s small court orchestra. His mission had pressed so heavily upon him that the day the petition arrived he had blurted out a few wild details to a fellow viola player from his native city. Thirty-six hours later a supper concert at Jofré and Sancia’s apartments had been interrupted by the Papal Guard and all too soon Tommaso was singing his heart out to quite different instruments.

‘When your men have finished with him I want him.’

‘He’ll be of no use to you. He has nothing more to say. He does not have a tongue any more.’ Alexander’s voice is almost compassionate. ‘It’s a bad end for a man who earns his living from his voice.’

‘And Caterina Sforza – does she know she has failed?’

‘Not yet. But I entertain both Venice and Florence tomorrow. Her treachery will be all over Italy by the time you reach her walls.’ He grins. ‘Perhaps we should “uncover” a few more assassination attempts from Rimini or Faenza or Pesaro, eh? Though when she denies it I dare say they will accuse us of making it up anyway.’

He sits back against his great chair. They have talked their way into dawn. He closes his eyes, though there is little enough time for sleep now: the first ambassadors will be arriving soon.

Cesare sits, studying him. The year they have spent apart can be read in his face: lines etched deeper, jowls more sallow and sagging. He has heard that Giulia spends time out of Rome with her husband these days, and that the Pope no longer frets so much about getting her back.

‘So, how is your health, Father?’

‘Hm?’ He opens his eyes.

‘This… fainting moment that you described after the baptism. Have you had it before?’

‘What? Is this some comment on my failing powers? I have never been better. I could ride out with you tomorrow if Rome didn’t have such need of me.’ There is nothing like an intimation of weakness to invigorate him. ‘Ha – this… this Virago thinks she can take me out in a shroud. She has forgotten how she used to make eyes at me when she was a favourite of Pope Sixtus. Give her my regards when you blow her fortress to smithereens. Tell her I look forward to hosting her in my dungeons.’ And he laughs, rubbing his face to wake himself up further. ‘So, no more talk of illness and death. Since you are here, let us celebrate birth. Tell me, when is your son due?’

‘I am not sure. January, February.’

‘Ah ha! I knew it. Those first lances hit their mark. What will you call him?’

Cesare shrugs. He had taken pleasure enough in his wife when there was the time to do so, but a warm bed in France is now a long way away. ‘Cities I can give you, Father. When it comes to the sex of my children, you must speak to God.’

‘Of course it will be a boy. With that heat of conception how could it not? We will bring him and his mother to Rome and he can grow up with Rodrigo. Ah, my son, you should have seen him at the baptism: half of Rome watching and he didn’t utter a cry, not a murmur, even when trembling old Cardinal Carafa almost drowned him in the font. But when they handed him to Paolo Orsini – as we agreed, so everyone could see the rapprochement of our two families – he took one look at his treacherous face and started to bellow. Didn’t stop until they took him away. My God, ten days old and my grandson already knows who not to trust. There’s a Borgia for you.’

Cesare says nothing. While he has no illusions about the Orsini, he needs their men and weapons until he can raise enough of his own, and he has not ridden day and night to talk of babies, especially not one born of a Neapolitan father.

‘And Lucrezia?’ he asks after a while. ‘How is she?’

‘Like the Madonna herself: radiant and serene. Though a little weak still from the birth.’

‘And this plot against you?’

‘She knows nothing of it. I would not wish to worry her. You will visit her and the baby before you leave?’

‘I have no time. Since you are safe I will sleep today and leave in the morning.’

‘She is your sister, Cesare. And the child is your nephew and my grandson.’

‘He is also the son of Naples.’ The words come out despite himself. It has suited him not to dwell on this matter, since the irritation it brings up in him is something he cannot easily control.

‘If you feel so strongly, you need not meet Alfonso. I will have him here this evening to give you time alone,’ the Pope says firmly.

‘That is not the point.’

‘Ah, Cesare, be realistic. This thing is not so simple.’

‘On the contrary, Father, nothing is simpler. King Federico refused us. Naples is our enemy. It will not survive this invasion. And when we have taken all the cities along the Via Emilia we will need to consolidate our gains with a marriage.’

The Pope waves an impatient hand. ‘Your sister is a new mother and happy wife. For now I suggest we concentrate on the campaign. When that is done we can talk of all this again.’

‘Just so long as we do, Father,’ he says, rising abruptly to his feet. He is suddenly extremely angry. No doubt the tiredness has rattled his temper. ‘With your permission I will leave you now. I need to sleep.’

‘Very well. My son?’

He turns at the door.

‘You do know that your sister will never forgive you.’

‘For what?’

‘If… if she finds out you were here and left without seeing her,’ he says mildly.

In the end he cannot stay away. When he wakes it is dark again. He sends a message to the palace to make sure his brother-in-law is not there, but the Pope, as good as his word, has called him away.

Lucrezia is asleep. She contracted a mild fever after the birth and has been bled and cloistered, cared for by her women and two midwives. The one who is attending her now is a middle-aged Roman with firm hands and a reputation for holding her ground when it comes to protecting the mother’s best interests.

‘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?’