Blood & Beauty (40 page)

‘Imola! Forlì! Imola! Forlì!’

As the procession moves towards the river, the crowds get bigger, yelling and pushing like a human battering ram against the makeshift barriers as the first wave of horses arrives, their snorting breaths making feather plumes of smoke in the winter air.

The Borgia spectacle has, as ever, been Johannes Burchard’s nightmare, so much so that there have been times when, faced with another outrageous demand, Burchard has looked back to his life as a young priest in Alsace with uncharacteristic nostalgia. How God had cared for him then, endowing him with a prodigious memory and thus a place in the great cathedral school of Niederhaslach, far above any family expectations. A year after being sent to Rome he had found the job he was born to do. What he didn’t know about Church ceremony he could learn faster than anyone else. But it was more than memory and pedantry: he also had a talent for organising spectacle. He was the right man at the right time. The papacy was growing richer, a consumer and patron of the new arts. The line between private and public was also changing, so that things once hidden were now more on display. How to bring the two together? How to celebrate weddings, baptisms and funerals for a papal family that ought not, by canon law, even to exist? Leave it to Burchard. How to negotiate the conflicting vanities of bishops, cardinals, papal legates, diplomats and foreign ambassadors? The Master of Ceremonies would find a way. No pope could do without him. What did he care if people made fun of him behind his back?

But what he could not bear was sloppiness, disorder, the cutting of corners, the patching-over of cracks. And in the Pope’s determination to take advantage of the timing of Carnival, what should have been weeks of organisation have been collapsed into days.

In the rising chaos had come increased squabbling. Cesare and his condottieri commanders treated him more like a messenger boy, with demands for scores of new uniforms and banners to be made in tailors’ shops all over the city, collected and transported in time for the parade. Then, with barely hours to go, a small company of Gascon mercenaries had kicked up an almighty fuss about the order of entry. As foreigners in the army, protocol demanded they enter last. Yet they flatly refused, insisting on marching close to the duke. To have his authority so flouted by men of no rank with uncombed hair and filthy fingernails was insupportable. In the end he had gone to Cesare himself.

‘I would have you tell them, Duke Valentinois’ (not for him the diminutive Valentino), ‘that I am the Master of Papal Ceremonies.’

‘I am conqueror of half of Romagna,’ Cesare had added with uncharacteristic good humour. ‘And I can’t do anything with them either. Relax, Burchard. It’s not worth it. Draw comfort from the fact that we are making history here.’

But that is exactly what he is worried about it. Not least because of Cesare himself, who has adapted his name to become exactly that of the first conqueror of Romagna, has had the word ‘CAESAR’ embroidered – silver thread on black velvet – on the chests of a hundred young grooms and mace bearers. And in case anyone should miss the message, the celebrations are to be continued next day with a series of tableaux in which Julius Caesar’s own crossing of the Rubicon is to be recreated, the great Roman soldier in battle dress and crowned in laurel leaves riding in a chariot behind. In a last-minute act of humility, the duke has decided to give the role to someone else.

What can he, Burchard, possibly do against such flagrant arrogance? Except sit at his desk each night and note down every detail, so that those who come after will understand that this family was not his doing.

‘Imola! Forlì! Imola! Forlì!’

From the windows in the upper storey of her white house near the Tiber, the courtesan Fiammetta de Michelis looks down as the first carts and banners roll into sight, moving from the Piazza del Popolo to Ponte Sant’ Angelo on their way to the Vatican. Hers is a prime view and she could have shared it with others – she has had enough offers – but she is sitting alone, save for a handsome grey bird perched upon her shoulder, its head cocked close to her ear, its long cherry-red tail perfectly complementing the gold and black of her dress.

‘Fiiimetta. Fiiimetta,’ it cackles into her ear, rocking to and fro as it settles its claws more firmly into the padded material of her shoulders. She laughs, putting a nut between her rosebud lips and offering it up as a treat. The bird pecks it neatly, expertly, tossing it down its throat then cocking its head again to nibble at her ear like some eager young lover.

‘It comes from the shores of Africa,’ he had said when he had delivered it a few days before his leaving for France. ‘Its eyes will turn yellow as it grows. But the tail will remain the same: an African parrot with the colours of Valentinois on its backside – just in case you should be tempted to forget me.’

‘But when you come back you will be a married man,’ she had teased him.

‘And what difference will that make? Just don’t keep it in your bedroom. If it hears names being moaned too often it will moan them back to the next man.’

‘Fro Valteeenwaw, Valteenwaw,’ it had squawked excitedly as soon as Cesare had removed the cap from its head. And she had clapped her hands in delight. She, who had grown used to expecting nothing from him, had been most pleased.

Fifteen months on, its feathers are a deeper grey and its eyes glint like wheat in the sun, but as promised the red tail remains shining fast. Its vocabulary has grown along with its plumage. It can now say the name of the Pope and the King of France and even mutter a few Latin words to welcome the odd cardinal client, drawn to the house by tales of her proficiency.

But in the last few weeks Fiammetta has been working hard to teach it two important new words.

‘Imolaa, Forlììì, Imolaa, Forlììì,’ it cackles now, the last syllable rising in a cheeky shriek to join in the roar from the streets below.

Not far from the white house, the tavern at the southern end of Ponte Sant’ Angelo boasts an even more impressive vista: across the bridge to Castel Sant’ Angelo. Behind the banners, on the upper turrets, guards wait by the guns, ready to dispatch furious salvoes as the parade arrives on the spanking new Via Alessandrina, the Pope’s own jubilee gift to Rome, which joins the castle to the Basilica of St Peter.

The owner of the tavern stands looking out over the bridge, empty for the first time in months in readiness for the parade. Behind her, servants scuttle around carrying food and wine to a crowd of guests. Vannozza dei Catanei may be the mother of the conquering hero, but she is also a successful businesswoman and today is an opportunity for profit, with each inch of viewing space already rented out to those who have the purse to pay for it.

Whatever pain Vannozza experienced over Juan’s death, it had been eclipsed by the theatrical suffering of his father and the political crises that followed. Excluded from public grief, she had withdrawn into herself and in the dark days that followed had turned to God and work as solace. The running of her vineyard and the tavern, always a pleasure, now gave her a continued sense of purpose. A year later, as she kissed goodbye to Cesare, she had invested in two new buildings in the reconstructed area of the city in anticipation of the jubilee, with loans guaranteed against her existing properties. The risk had been the challenge she needed. With her own estate supplying most of the food and wine, and her past an open secret to the kind of pilgrims who enjoy, and can afford, status in devotion, her new hostels have been full since long before the year began, so that she has already paid back half the loan. It may be a small achievement next to the glories of her elder son, but it brings her immense satisfaction.

She could be watching today’s festivities from a room in the castle: the Pope, though absent-minded about her, especially when things are going his way, has been kind enough to issue an invitation. But she is happier in the world she has built around herself. She has always been her own woman, and for all that Alexander might see his children as Borgias, he would, if asked, surely concede that something of her determination and self-sufficiency has made its way into them too.

The roads leading up to the bridge are seething, the crowd hemmed in by troops, their great staves plaited together to make the barrier. Half the religious movements of Europe are represented here: brown Franciscans, white Cistercians, black Dominicans, old and young, many with their cowls up against the winter wind. She watches as a young man – Jofré’s age maybe – with blunt features under a tonsured head takes issue with the soldiers’ roughness, yelling something in German as they push a woman to the floor. He helps her up then disappears into the crowd, muttering furiously. So many people, she thinks, each one with their own story, each following their own singular line of fate. The sound of trumpets rises up in the distance. It is time to open the best wine, which she has had brought over from her private cellar. There will be no better moment to drink it. Her son has come home.

In his rooms above the Borgia apartments, Cesare the soldier is missing camp life. His temper frays easily and his moods shift like the weather. He cannot sleep: either his chamber is too hot or the bed is too soft. He douses the fire, wraps himself in his battle cloak and has the mattress transferred to the floor. He lives for the writing and reading of dispatches; detailed daily reports from Imola and Forlì left in the care of one of his Spanish captains, Ramiro de Lorqua – fashioning a new government is a full-time job – or the latest news from the French army, currently cutting a violent swathe in forced march into Lombardy and on to Milan. Ludovico Sforza is poised to retake his old city. Cesare and Michelotto stay up long into the night discussing strategies, imagining the confrontation to come.

Meanwhile, the queue of servants bearing invitations is growing embarrassingly long. If the duke could see fit to find the time…

‘Venice and Ferrara I’ll see. The rest can wait.’

‘There is a further invitation from your sister, the Duchess of Bisceglie.’

‘Lucrezia, or her husband as well?’

Michelotto shrugs. ‘I don’t see how you can avoid him for ever.’

‘Why not?’ he growls. ‘I have shaken his hand. What more does he want?’

On the morning of the parade, Alfonso had dressed and left their palazzo before dawn.

‘Why, Duke Bisceglie, I do believe you are the most handsome man in all of Rome.’ Lucrezia, shivering in her nightrobes, had insisted on getting up with him.

‘Not more handsome than your brother, I hope? Nobody must outshine him today. You had better rub some ash into my robes, or break a few of my cap feathers.’

‘It would do no good. It is your face that gives you away.’

‘Then I’ll wear an eyepatch.’ They had laughed as he embraced her. ‘I have to go,’ he said after a while. ‘It would not do to be late.’ But she won’t release him. ‘It is just a parade, Lucrezia. I will be back.’

‘I know, I know.’ She had made her voice gay. ‘What will you say to him?’

‘I shall congratulate him on his brilliance as a soldier and a leader. And he will thank me. Because he will know that I am being sincere.’

And so it had been. The two men had met in hazy first light as the horses were saddled and the grooms and mace bearers gathered, smoothing down their doublets and sticking out their chests so the name of Caesar could be read more easily. There had been a firm handshake, a few words and a fast embrace, as if both men feared they might catch something from the other. They were saved from further intimacy by the arrival of Jofré, like an over-excited puppy whose master has just come home.

‘… Ah, the way you took the fortress of Imola… and the bombard of Forlì – so clever, just the right number of guns. And the right strategy…’ He blathered on for a while. ‘Those poxy French. But you’ll have Pesaro soon enough. And Rimini. I shall help you this time. We just need to persuade Father. I could be your second-in-command. I have decided every battle move ahead with you. Sancia will tell you. What was she like? Tell me.’

‘Who?’ Cesare had allowed himself to be amused.

‘The Virago Sforza, of course. Did you bed her? Yes, yes, of course you did. How many times? Did she fight you very hard?’

To shut him up, Cesare had shot out a hand and grabbed him round the neck, pulling him into a headlock the way he used to when they wrestled together.

‘This is what I did to her,’ he said as the young man yelped indignantly. ‘And then I did this.’ He used his other hand to grab at Jofré’s codpiece under his doublet. ‘And guess what I discovered, brother? Her balls were bigger than yours. Ah, my baby brother, the warrior!’ he had yelled, releasing him and lifting up his hand high for all to see. ‘Now get on your horse. And don’t fall off. If you are very good I’ll arrange for you to visit her yourself.’

But in fact it had been Caterina Sforza who had had the last word.

This splendid horsewoman, who had dispatched her best animals to Mantua rather than have them fall into the hands of her enemy, had suffered the indignity of crossing the Apennines in a supply cart. Yet she had still found ways to look her best when, as his prisoner, she had followed Cesare into the frescoed Room of the Consistories, where the Pope sat enthroned ready to receive them.

The Holy Father of all Christendom. But also a ridiculously proud father.

Cesare had barely brought his lips to the Pope’s feet before Alexander was leaping up, gathering him to his chest, laughing and chattering in effusive Catalán. On this, one of the most triumphant days of his life, how could he not show beneficence to such a fine-looking woman whose defeat had been their glory?

‘I give myself into your hands, Holy Father,’ she had said, her voice low and thrilling. ‘Duke Valentino is a warrior with the power of the ancients. I have met no man like him.’

In that moment, dead soldiers, broken promises, threats and poisoned shrouds were all lost in the pleasure of watching a lovely woman, with milk white breasts propelled upwards from a tight bodice, sinking into a deep curtsey at his feet.

‘You are right. And only such a man could defeat a warrior like yourself. Welcome to Rome, Caterina Sforza.’

Behind him, Cesare growled softly.

‘You are our guest as well as our prisoner and you shall stay in the Belvedere Palace in my own gardens. There will be rooms made ready for you.’

As the guards stepped forward to accompany her, she moved past Cesare, a quiet but unmistakable smile on her face.

‘Not everyone approves of the idea of war against a woman. We will win more support with magnanimity than revenge now.’

‘Except it’s not finished. She must renounce her claim on behalf of her children, and living in luxury gives her no incentive to do it.’

Amid the madness of celebrations, it is days before father and son find themselves properly alone together.

‘So, we will use the threat of the dungeons to persuade her. By then she will be forgotten anyway. Come, let us not argue over details. You have made me the happiest man in Christendom. Tell me, what can this loving father give you in return, oh Duke of half of Romagna?’

‘The means to take the other half.’

‘Ah, you are on fire still.’ Alexander beams with delight. ‘And you shall have it. You will be Gonfaloniere and the Captain-General of the Church within the month. Burchard is already drawing up the papers.’

‘And the army to go with it? We need to raise more soldiers and artillery.’

‘I know. But we have time.’ This warrior son of his is so impatient. ‘Nothing can be done until Milan is settled.’

‘No. That is the whole problem, Father. As long as we depend on the French, we are not in command of our own destiny. I know that now. I tell you, for this to work we need our own army made up of our own mercenaries. Spanish if possible, so their loyalty is set. The rest we can draw from inside the Romagna.’

‘What about Vitelli, the Orsini and the others? They fought well for you.’

‘Well enough. But at root they are like everyone else. Their first loyalty is to themselves. And if we are successful in the taking of the cities – and we will be – eventually we will be looking at theirs too. The Orsini won’t know what’s hit them.’

‘Ah – listen to the ambition!’ He has been waiting for this moment for months; to taste the victory and make it his own. ‘I believe war has changed you. Even your face is more soldier than courtier. You know, when I was young, I used to look a little like you. Gladiator chest and shoulders. Ah, how women love a warrior. Sweet Mother of God, we are a family to be proud of, with such triumph to celebrate.’

‘So when do we start?’

‘Start what?’

‘Recruiting. It is the perfect time.’ Cesare gestures to the window. ‘Half of Europe is pouring tribute into the Church.’

‘What? You are Pope as well as Captain-General now?’ he laughs. ‘I should remind you there are a few other… meagre demands on the papacy. Venice is calling for a crusade: pirate infidels are plundering her ships halfway to the Indies.’

‘Then we can use the demand to make her give us something in return.’

‘You think I am not working on it already? By the time you are back on the road she will have withdrawn all support from the cities of the Romagna. Aaah! You young pups think it is all done with clashing steel and boom-bard cannonballs. The battles I fight here demand at least as much strategy. Now do me the favour to stop pacing like a wolf in the forest and relax for a moment. Sit, will you!’

Cesare does as he is told, finding his old chair and throwing his body into it, his feet sprawled halfway across the arms.

‘I hear that there is a most lovely courtesan in Rome who has a parrot that swears in Latin. And that the same bird squawks
your
name while its mistress is busy murmuring other men’s. I wonder who gave her that?’

‘Father, we are talking of armies, not women.’

‘No. We are talking of life.’ The Pope sighs, as if giving up on him. ‘Or have you given up everything for war? Maybe it is the Virago who changed you. Wore you out, perhaps. My – you have no idea what stories reached us here.’

‘Gossip is not truth,’ Cesare says baldly. He has felt a recurring disgust at the memory of the encounter, not all of it directed towards her. Yes, it is true that he had caught a glimpse of Fiammetta at her window as they paraded past. But by the time he crossed the bridge he had forgotten her again. If he dwelt on it, he too might find it strange, how inside all this driving energy of victory there has been little obvious sexual desire. At times he has found his thoughts turning more to his modest, pliant wife, now fat with child. Her expressed delight at the Venetian silks and glass that he has sent to her speaks of different affection; a fondness born of admiration rather than lust. It is a long time since he has felt such female warmth inside his blood family.

‘What about my sister?’ he says sharply. ‘Is she still besotted with Naples?’

‘She is happy, yes, and in great excitement at your return.’ Alexander, as always, lies with admirable gusto.

‘And our traitor in-laws, the Aragonese? How are they?’

‘Ah, my son, don’t be so harsh. Their name is as much a burden to them as it is to us.’

‘Nevertheless, we—’

‘And before you say more.’ He talks over him now, his voice more forceful. ‘Until Milan is taken and there is an army heading for Naples that matter will not be spoken of between us. We shall enjoy a little harmony alongside the fruits of victory. Is that understood?’

Cesare bows his head in obedience.

‘Good. Since you are more interested in work than diversion, let us talk cardinals. Four deaths mean four vacancies in the college, but since there are at least two dozen contenders with open purses, perhaps we might appoint more. A few fellow Spaniards will work well for our future. You can start to pay for your army from there. I shall send you a list. And now we shall drink wine and play at war, you and I. You will show me how you took Forlì. I have had them put extra condiments on the table and a set of new silver French forks so we will have enough to designate each part of the army. See… just like it was all those years ago in the Palazzo Borgia. Ah, what a journey it has been.’

And as he says it two fat tears of joy start their way up and over the flesh foothills of his craggy cheeks. What depth of fatherly love. Impossible to resist. As the two men settle over the mustard pots, forks and pasta spoons, with the south wall of the fortress of Forlì a thick napkin propped against a goblet, a spike of pain shoots up through Cesare’s leg, deep into his groin. It is the second time in a week that he has felt it. God’s wounds, he thinks. Not again. Not now.