Blood & Beauty (47 page)

After dinner the women’s work begins. It is proposed that they play a game of chestnuts: the men will scatter them to the floor and the women will pick them up in their teeth. If, that is, their clothes don’t get in the way. And if they want to win, then of course…

Lucrezia chooses the moment to slip away. That such – things – take place in her brother’s house does not surprise her, but she has not worked this hard to woo the Ferrarese for it to be so easily squandered. As she goes she catches sight of Burchard, his mask of bureaucratic nonchalance slipping for a moment.

Oh, how this man hates us, she thinks. Perhaps if I were him, I would feel the same way too.

She is still in the antechamber when Cesare’s voice calls her back.

‘Leaving so soon, sister?’

‘Why did you invite me here, Cesare?’ She turns to him, face flushed. ‘This is not a fit evening for me to attend.’

‘Why not? What is wrong with my guests? They are honest women.’ His insolence has its own anger. ‘More honest than most of the whores who ply their trade in a court.’

‘That’s as may be, but I would not be seen as honest if I spent time with them.’

‘Well, at least I have some reaction from you. It is better than being ignored.’

‘I am not ignoring you,’ she says quietly. ‘You have been away for months campaigning and I have been consumed by this work of marriage. There is a great deal to do before—’

‘Before you become Duchess of Ferrara. Yes, I know. Duchess of Ferrara. I have kept my promise to you, sister. Remember? You are out of Rome. Whatever happens here, you will prosper.’

‘I hope so.’

‘And?’ He waits.

‘And I thank you for it.’

‘So. I am forgiven now?’

‘Valentwaah. Valentwaaah.’ The parrot’s voice rises above raucous female laughter.

‘Why is Johannes Burchard here?’ she says, sliding away from the question. ‘Have you seen his face? He is in a fury of disgust.’

‘Burchard? I thought Fiammetta might melt his ice.’ He laughs. ‘I like to see him shocked. He writes it all down, you know. Every disapproving detail.’

‘Oh! Then we must hope that no one ever reads it. We will be damned by his outrage.’

‘On the contrary, sweet sister. The more outrage the better. This way people will fear us while we are alive and never – ever – forget us when we are dead.’

But Lucrezia has her own fears about being forgotten. In the months since their return from Nepi, Rodrigo has grown from a baby into a vigorous, noisy little boy. Now when she visits, rather than running into her arms he runs away from her, because he likes nothing better than to be chased around the room, squealing with joy until he is caught and tickled as he rolls on the floor. The noise of his helpless giggles brings back memories of her own childhood in Aunt Adriana Mila’s house: the sounds of Juan and Jofré cavorting and spatting together. She, however, will not see Rodrigo grow to be either of their ages.

‘Of course, my son will not accompany me to Ferrara,’ she tells one of the envoys as she shows him around the Vatican one afternoon, the golden-haired child pulling and playing at her skirts as they go. ‘He is to be given into the guardianship of my father’s nephew, Cardinal Costenza.’

‘The duke will be most content to hear that. And I am sure your son will be excellently looked after.’ It is a relief to have the conversation out of the way; the instructions from Ferrara have been explicit on the matter.

‘Most certainly he will,’ she says, her eyes bright with the tears she refuses to shed as she ruffles the child’s hair.

Some would call it fortune. Instead of a mother and father this two-year-old boy has a title – the Duke of Sermoneta – a private income of fifteen thousand ducats and all manner of lands; a few that the Pope has only just prised out of the hands of the Colonna family, as punishment for their support of Naples. The Borgias are settling old scores fast these days.

As the wedding draws closer she must say goodbye to him herself. The house is already being packed up and it is better if he leaves before she does.

‘Mamma! Mamma!’ In the nursery the ritual of the running and the catching takes place, the little body wriggling on the floor in breathless squeals.

‘You must be a good boy, Rodrigo,’ she says when the fit is passed and she has pulled him to her. ‘Do everything your uncle and your teachers tell you. I will write to you every day, and as soon as you can write, you will reply, yes?’

Around them, one of his nursemaids is crying silently.

When he asks where she is going, Lucrezia says lightly, ‘Oh – just to another city for a while.’

The reply seems to satisfy him, so that when she hugs him, tighter this time, he struggles to get free and starts careering round the room once more.

‘Again. Mamma. Catch again!’ he shouts to her.

For the first time in many years, she thinks about her mother, Vannozza, and wonders how she had felt the day when she had kissed her own children goodbye. But still she does not cry.

Leaving Sancia brings another kind of pain. The world has not been kind to her sister-in-law. Not only does she no longer have a brother, but also her beloved Naples is gone for ever. Unable to hide her feelings, she has annoyed the Pope so much that he has banished her from court. Lucrezia now begs that he reinstate her, and because he can deny his perfect daughter nothing, he complies.

‘It is not his nature to be cruel. You’ll be back in his affections soon enough if you grant him a smile now and then.’

‘People do not smile when they are in hell,’ she says sullenly. ‘It is easy for you. He adores you and now you are free to go. But that will never happen to me. I hate it here. I hate everything about it.’

‘Nevertheless it is where you live and you must bear it.’

‘I wish they were all dead. I know they are your family. But that is what I feel. I am not the only one who hates them. You have read the letter?’

‘What letter?’ With the wedding almost upon them she has been too busy for gossip. Or maybe she has chosen not to listen again.

‘Oh – it is all over Rome. It’s addressed to a member of the Savelli family who lost his lands last year. Jofré says it is a fraud, made up in Venice as propaganda against the papacy, but I think it is real.’

‘What does it say?’

‘That your father and your brother share the perversion of the Turks, that the Vatican is full of prostitutes who dance naked and play games. And that Cesare Borgia murders anyone who disagrees with him.’

‘I don’t see how men who favour Turkish manners can keep a palace of prostitutes,’ she says mildly, but of course she is thinking about Burchard’s diary. ‘Jofré is right. It sounds like slander to me.’

‘Slander is when something isn’t true. It’s true enough about Cesare. The letter compares him to Caligula and Nero in his cruelty. Maybe you haven’t heard what he did to the man from Naples.’

‘Which man?’

‘Oh, just someone who was repeating stories from the letter about town. Cesare had him arrested and his hand and his tongue cut out and stuck outside the prison window for all to see. And do not tell me he wouldn’t do such a thing. You know as well as I do that he is a monster.’

Outrage. This way people will fear us when we are alive and never – ever – forget us when we are dead.

‘Oh, Sancia,’ she says softly. ‘Whatever I think of him, he is still my brother. Please. Let it not come between us. I want us to part as friends.’

Sancia, whose passion always hurts herself most of all, bursts into tears. ‘I can’t bear it. What will I do without you?’

‘You will be fine. You are more beautiful than ever and you will find someone to love you, I promise.’ And if it is not Jofré, so be it, she thinks. Because she knows now that it is only fools who look for love within marriage. ‘I will pray for you every day.’

‘I wouldn’t bother. God does not care about the House of Aragon any more.’

If outrage is the intention, then there are ways other than sexual games or violence to achieve it, the flaunting of wealth is the most colourful one. First there had been Juan’s departure for Spain. Then Cesare’s leaving for France. But all this is as nothing when compared to Lucrezia’s marriage to Ferrara.

Some of it is one-upmanship: if the d’Este think themselves superior to the Borgias, then it is time they saw what real power looks like.

Some of it is love: who would not want to deck his only daughter in the most beautiful fabrics – gold, damasks, brocades – with diamonds, rubies and sapphires sewn into every sleeve, every bodice, every veil and net over the sunshine of her hair?

Some of it is tradition: it is a bride’s role to dazzle all who see her, and with so many ceremonies and parties there must always be another costume, more lovely than the last. What young woman could not take a little pleasure in such a thing? Rich cloth and jewels are not inherently immoral. They speak of man’s ability to value and create beauty. A young bride walking towards her future husband in a cascade of white silk and pearls would do the world a disservice if she didn’t hold her head high, making those who watch catch their breath in wonder as she goes.

And some of it is not the Borgias’ fault.

A daughter always costs more to marry than a son because of the dowry she must bring. And this particular dowry – its details fought over as hard as any war – nudges outrage towards obscenity. After all the clothing, the jewels, the household wealth, the reduction of papal taxes from Ferrara, the benefices and the transfer of lands and castles, there remains the sum of one hundred thousand ducats in hard cash.

January 1, 1502. A room is set out in the Vatican palace for the business to take place. On one side sit full Borgia chests, on the other empty Ferrarese ones, and in the middle a table with counters and witnesses. The ducats must be considered one by one, and none of the ‘chamber’ sort – where the gold content is less – will be accepted. When this final stipulation is put to Alexander the day before they are due to begin, he goes puce with fury.

‘I think he will pay with whatever kind of ducats he wants,’ the Ferrarese ambassador reports back as diplomatically as he can. One can push a pope too far.

Two, five, ten, one hundred, five hundred, one thousand… whatever the insult, they cannot stop now. As of twenty-four hours ago, Lucrezia and Alfonso are man and wife, at least by proxy. The Ferrarese wedding party arrived ten days before, and barely had time to unpack their wardrobe chests before the festivities began. In place of the bridegroom (Alfonso and his father do not budge from Ferrara), Lucrezia says her vows and receives the ring from his younger brother, Don Ferrante Siena – more personable in all manner of ways – while the other brothers, Sigismundo and the flamboyant Cardinal Ippolito, bear witness.

One thousand five hundred, two thousand, three, four, five… the air grows warm with the clink and shuffle. The counters take their meals at the table and the wine, though good, is rationed. Clear heads are essential.

That night, the wedding parties listen to orations to the bride and groom and their prestigious families, and then a comedy is performed – or rather half performed, as the Pope pronounces it ‘Boring!’ halfway through and the floor is cleared for the dancing to begin. Lucrezia, sitting on a silken cushion at her place of honour at her father’s feet, is somewhat hampered by the weight of family jewellery she is wearing.

By the middle of the next day twenty thousand ducats have moved across the table. The work goes so well that they overfill the first chest. Too heavy to be carried, its iron bindings scratch tracks into the tiles on the floor. Twenty-five, twenty-seven, thirty thousand.

Outside, in the piazza in front of the basilica, there is a staged bullfight; Cesare renounces black in favour of gold, so that he contrasts better with the animals. Everyone has heard of his feats of strength and now they madly cheer him on as he skewers two bulls from his horse, then finishes them off on foot. His new brothers-in-law are most impressed. Whatever the gossip, these Borgias are to be taken notice of. Don Ferrante, who having stood in for his brother at the wedding is already half in love, turns to Lucrezia. ‘Such blood and beauty in one family,’ he says, and he waves his feathered cap like a perfect courtier. She smiles happily. He is a professional charmer, of course. They all are. And not only to her. Cardinal Ippolito, who has grown up a great deal since Alexander gave him his scarlet hat at the age of fifteen, has been paying unexpected attention to Sancia, whose eyes flash a little fire now she is brought back into the fold. She waves to Lucrezia across the crowd. It is impossible not to wish her well.

Forty-five thousand… They are almost halfway there. Ah – but now they are finding a few worn ones. Even – God forbid – some counterfeits. They slacken the pace, stopping as soon as daylight fades, since the flicker of torches makes it hard to study the coins. If any of them are tempted to slip a few up their sleeves or inside their jerkins, they are put off by the search that takes place each time the shift changes. Wealth sticks to wealth. Fifty thousand ducats. Sixty. Still counting.

The next day, another play and more dancing. Is it possible to have too much pleasure? The day after, everyone rests. The coins however continue to move their restless march across the table.

On the afternoon of January 5 the Ferrarese envoy and Ferrante, the proxy bridegroom, are called into the room to survey the chests. One hundred thousand ducats. Don Ferrante then visits the Pope. The two men embrace each other and flowery words are shared. It is done. The dowry is exchanged. The bride can leave.

Lucrezia is ready. In her palace next door, her leaving costume is laid out waiting and in the courtyard the carts are loaded and mules and horses rounded up. In amongst them sits a litter, a present from her father: a wooden room lined with gold and padded upholstery. The road to Ferrara will take her north into Umbria, then over the Apennines through Urbino into the Romagna, and not all the roads will be as straight and well kept as the Via Emilia. The route is carefully designed to take in a dozen or more important cities, where she and her court will be fêted and entertained. She will be on show constantly, for this is as much a victory parade for the Borgias as it is the arrival of a bride. It will demand stamina as well as buckets of grace and charm. She will be smiling for weeks.

But this final night in Rome she is her own mistress. Of course she cannot sleep and there is a last thing that she must do. She calls for her maidservant and puts on an ordinary overcloak and walking shoes.

‘I should call for the guards, my lady.’

‘No, we will go alone.’

The girl’s face shows her uncertainty. ‘But it is dark and—’

‘It is barely a few paces from here, as you know, and we will not be gone long. I have arranged it already.’

Outside, it is much colder that she expects, freezing almost. Perhaps it is because she is tired. She pulls her cloak around her and moves faster. It takes them no time to cross from the back door of the palazzo to the steps of the Basilica of St Peter. In the great piazza at the bottom of the stairs, Cesare had been killing bulls two days ago. But this walk has another kind of violence attached to it. The bloodstains from her husband’s body are no longer there – she looked once in the daylight – but in a city of increasing violence there will be other swords drawn here soon enough.

The side door to the church pushes open and they walk inside. A watchman is sitting on a small stool with a candle by his side.

‘It is the Pope’s daughter,’ she says, slipping off the hood of her cloak. ‘You know me, sir, I think, from times before.’

He bows his head and she slips a coin into his hand. His fingers close over it and he is murmuring prayers even before she moves on.

St Peter’s. Old, cold and cavernous, its flagstones worn smooth by a million feet. Inside it feels too big for itself: empty even when it is full. She and her maid move swiftly through the nave, their lamp held high. To either side there are chapels hidden in the shadows, many of them dating from centuries before. The most recent, that of Sixtus IV, stands out because it is grander than the rest and there are candles kept burning throughout the night.

In the course of Vatican business, she has heard many people talk about the basilica; how in this modern Rome, with so many new palaces and churches, this great barn is no longer a fitting monument for the centre of Christendom. What a triumph it would be if another, greater St Peter’s could be built on this same spot, a church designed with the eyes of our new understanding of the ancients, a building like the Duomo in Florence that is rightly famous throughout the world. A pope who cared for the Church as much as for his family might be thinking of that, she once heard the Spanish ambassador say when he did not know she was within earshot. He dropped his eyes quickly enough when he saw her.

The chapel she is looking for is that of Santa Petronilla, the daughter of St Peter, in the left transept. It too has been rebuilt, the last time barely two years ago. Now it houses the tomb of the French Cardinal Bilhères. His funeral statue had been finished, but not yet in place, when he died of summer fever. The monument had been the talk of Rome for a while: how this brilliant young sculptor from Florence – barely twenty when he arrived – had done something most unusual, taking an image that was more common in the north of Europe and using it to express his own representation of the dead Christ with his mother.

She had visited it first soon after she got back from Nepi, when her own grief was still huge and undigested inside her, and whenever she has felt overwhelmed by life since then, she has returned. There is a comfort here that is sorely lacking in the church where Alfonso is buried. It had been such a mean, hurried affair and the marble slab with its bland lettering is only a reminder of the pain: her husband lies neglected in a neglected place; such was the insult of his death.

But this monument is extraordinary. She has seen paintings of the Virgin, with the dead Christ being taken down from the cross, but they have always been crowded affairs: disciples and ladies all helping her to bear His weight, because Mary’s ageing body, destroyed by grief, is as stricken as His. But this is an altogether new way of seeing that moment. Because in this sculpture the Virgin is alone with Him. Here, she is neither stricken nor ageing. Instead she is a sublimely graceful young woman, sitting firm, her head slightly bowed, her legs parted under voluminous robes the better to support the unbearable weight of her dead son. But though the moment it represents is filled with pain, there is nothing painful about it. On the contrary. Her face is free from suffering. There is sadness, oh yes, but also serenity. Whatever sorrow has been given to her, she has accepted it, has known it somehow from the moment when the angel first appeared to her. Mary, Mother of God, full of grace.

In the night, the lamp throwing its glow up into her face shows all this clearly. In daylight it is there too, but the arrangement of light falls differently then, slicing in from a window above, so that it moves past her face and draws attention to the precious cargo in her lap: the body of her son. And He – well, He is just so beautiful. The ravages of the cross are muted here. There are no gory holes in hands and feet, no leaking wound in His side and His head is not battered and bloodied after the crown of thorns. There is nothing, in fact, to take away from the appreciation of God’s greatest work: His only son made into perfect human flesh. That flesh brought alive again in marble by the hand of man. The circle is complete.