The Family Read online

  Perugia was an awesome and beautiful site. Its fortress, which rested on an enormous hill, was almost impregnable.

  As the three young men entered the city, they could see that the churches and palaces were decorated for the wedding, the statues draped with cloths of gold. Cesare chatted happily, even joking with his friends; he carefully made note of the fortifications, and amused himself with plans on how to storm the city.

  The ruler of Perugia was the widow, Duchess Atalanta Baglioni. Still a beautiful woman, she was noted for the ferocity with which she ruled, using her son, Netto, as her military captain. It was her dearest wish to see her nephew, Torino, be married to Lavina, one of her favorite ladies of the court. Torino, she felt, could be counted on to support the reign of the Baglioni family.

  All the different branches of the physically powerful Baglioni clan assembled on the castle grounds. Musicians played and couples danced at the great feast. There was wrestling and jousting. Cesare, who prided himself on his strength, took on all challengers and won his matches.

  When night fell the Baglioni clan retired to the fortress, while Gio, Cesare, and Tila gathered in Tila’s apartments for a final bout of drinking.

  It was near midnight, and they were drowsy from the wine, when they heard screams and shouting ring throughout the castle. Startled, Tila immediately jumped up and tried to rush out of the apartment, sword in hand, but Cesare restrained him. “Let me see what is happening. You may be in danger. I’ll return quickly.”

  As soon as Cesare heard the screams, he knew by instinct that some great treachery had occurred. As he left Tila’s apartment, he held his sword down at his side. Though the Baglioni clan had a reputation for murder, he knew they would not dare kill the son of a Pope. Cesare walked calmly through the corridors of the castle toward the screams, which continued. He found himself outside the bridal chamber.

  There was blood everywhere. The statues of the Virgin Mary, the portrait of the Infant Jesus, the white sheets and pillowcases of the marriage bed—even its canopy—were drenched in blood. And on the floor lay the bodies of the bridal couple, Lavina and Torino, their nightgowns stained red, sword punctures ripped through fabric and flesh, mortal wounds to their heads and hearts.

  Over them stood Netto with four armed men, all with scarlet swords. Netto’s mother, the Duchess Atalanta, was screaming curses at her beloved son. As Netto tried to calm her, Cesare stood listening.

  The son was explaining to his mother. “Mama, Torino was too powerful, and his family was plotting to overthrow you. I have killed all the members of his clan.” Then he tried to reassure his mother that, though she would have to be deposed and he would become the ruler, she would always hold a position of honor in his government.

  She slapped him. “A son’s betrayal!” she screamed.

  “Open your eyes, Mama. Not only Torino, but also Cousin Tila, has conspired against you,” Netto insisted.

  Cesare had heard enough. He took his leave and quickly returned to Tila’s apartment.

  After hearing what happened, Tila was enraged. “Gossip, gossip, all of it!” he shouted. “That bastard cousin of mine, Netto, is trying to steal the crown from his own mother. And he plans to murder me as well.”

  Cesare, Tila, and Gio barricaded the door and then went out through the window and up onto the roof of the palace, scaling the rough stone walls. Cesare and Tila jumped down into the dark of the rear courtyard, then helped Gio, who was not physically strong. Once on the ground, Cesare had to restrain Tila from trying to get back to the castle to fight Netto. He finally led them to the fields where their escort was encamped, where he knew he’d be safe because of his own thirty armed men. His only problem was Tila. Should he stay to save his friend, or take him to Rome and safety?

  Cesare offered Tila the alternatives but Tila refused. He asked only that Cesare protect him in getting to the Communal Palace in the center of Perugia, where he could rally his own followers to defend his honor and restore the castle to his aunt.

  Cesare agreed, but first he told ten of his armed men to escort Gio Medici back safely to Florence. Then, with the rest of his men, he took Tila Baglioni to the Communal Palace.

  There they found four armed men, faithful supporters of Tila, waiting for them. He immediately sent them out as messengers, and by dawn there were more than a hundred soldiers under Tila’s command.

  As the sun rose, they saw a troop of armed men on horses led by Netto riding through the public square. Cesare warned his own men not to take part in any battle. Then they watched as Tila surrounded the square with his men and rode alone to confront Netto.

  The battle was quickly over. Tila rode directly into Netto, grabbing his sword arm and then stabbing him in the thigh with his dagger. Netto fell off his horse. Tila dismounted, and before Netto could stand, Tila impaled him on his sword. Netto’s troops tried to flee, but were captured. Tila then mounted his clipped-ear warhorse and ordered the captured enemy to be brought to stand before him.

  Fifteen of them were left alive. Most of them were wounded and could barely stand.

  Cesare watched as Tila ordered Netto’s men beheaded, and their heads spiked to the ramparts of the cathedral. He was amazed at the sight of Tila, the bullying student lout, who had been transformed that one day into a merciless executioner. Only seventeen, Tila Baglioni had become the Tyrant of Perugia.

  When Cesare arrived in Rome and met with his father, he told the story and then asked, “If the Virgin Mary is the most beloved saint in Perugia, why are they so merciless?”

  Pope Alexander smiled. He seemed more amused with the story than horrified. “The Baglioni are true believers,” he said. “They believe in paradise. Such a great gift. How otherwise can man bear this mortal life? Unfortunately, such a belief also gives evil men the courage to commit great crimes in the name of good and God.”

  Pope Alexander did not love luxury only for itself. His palace, the Vatican, had to evoke the all-encompassing pleasures of the heavens themselves. He understood that even those who were spiritually elevated were impressed by the rich, earthly trappings of God, as represented by the Holy Catholic Church. The common people accepted the figure of the Pope as the Vicar of Christ, infallible and venerated, but kings and princes tended to be weaker in their faith. Those of noble blood had to be convinced with gold and gems, silks and rich brocades; by the huge miter the Pope wore on his head and the rich tapestry of his papal robes, the gold and silver embroidery of his vestments and cape, centuries old, lovingly preserved and valuable beyond imagination.

  One of the grandest chambers in the Vatican was the huge Hall of Popes—thousands of square yards of ornately decorated walls and magnificently painted ceilings which held the promise of the afterlife for those of virtue. It was in this hall that the Pope received those who came on pilgrimages from all over Europe, ducats in hand, begging for a plenary indulgence. Here there were portraits of famous Popes crowning great kings such as Charlemagne, as well as Popes leading the Crusades and supplicating the Madonna to intercede for mankind.

  In all these portraits it was clear that these great kings owed their power to the Pope who was anointing them. He was their earthly savior. The kings, with heads bowed, kneeled in front of the Pope, whose eyes were raised toward the heavens.

  It was into his private chambers in the anteroom off the Great Hall in the Vatican that Alexander now called his son Juan. It was time to make known to him that his destiny as a part of Spanish nobility was at hand.

  Juan Borgia was almost as tall as Cesare, but slighter of build. Like his brother and father, he was an attractive man but with a difference. He had the slightly slanted eyes and high cheekbones of his Spanish ancestors. His skin was bronzed from his long hours of riding and hunting but there was often a look of suspicion in his widely set dark eyes. By far his greatest disadvantage was that he had none of the charm of Cesare or Alexander. His dark lips were often curled in a cynical smile, but they were not now, as he knelt before his fat
her.

  “How may I serve you, Papa?” he asked.

  Alexander smiled with affection at this child of his. For it was this young man—like those souls in limbo, lost and confused—who most needed his guidance to gain salvation. “The time has now come for you to take over the responsibility left to you when your half brother, Pedro Luis, died. As you have been told, he bequeathed to you his duchy and his title of duke of Gandia. At the time of his death he was betrothed to Maria Enriquez, cousin of King Ferdinand of Spain, and I, as your father—and as the Holy Father—have decided to honor this commitment, in order to ensure our alliance with newly united Spain and to reassure the house of Aragon of our friendship. Therefore, within a short period of time, you will go to Spain to claim your royal bride. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Papa,” he said, but he scowled.

  “You are unhappy with my decision?” the Pope asked. “It is an advantage to us, and to you. The family has wealth and station and we will benefit politically from this alliance. Also, there is a great Spanish castle in Gandia, and many wealthy territories that will now belong to you.”

  “Will I have riches to take with me, so that they can see I also must be respected?” Juan asked.

  Alexander frowned. “If you wish to be respected, you must be pious and God-fearing. You must serve the king faithfully, honor your wife, and avoid gambling and games of chance.”

  “Is that all, Father?” Juan asked sardonically.

  “When there is more, I will call for you again,” Pope Alexander said curtly. He was seldom annoyed with this son, but at this moment he found himself extremely irritated. He tried to remind himself that Juan was young and had no flair for diplomacy. When he spoke again, it was with constrained warmth. “In the meantime, enjoy your life, my son. It will be a grand adventure if you approach it properly.”

  On the day Cesare Borgia was to be ordained a cardinal of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, the huge chapel of Saint Peter’s Basilica overflowed with fashionably dressed nobility. All the great aristocratic families of Italy were in attendance.

  From Milan came the swarthy Ludovico Sforza, “Il Moro,” and his brother, Ascanio. Ascanio Sforza, now Alexander’s vice-chancellor, dressed in the rich ivory brocade ecclesiastical vestments and red hat of a cardinal. Everyone in the crowded basilica murmured at the sight.

  From Ferrara came the d’Este, one of the most regal and conservative old families of Italy. Their robes, simple black and gray, showcased the dazzling jewelry that hung from their necks. They had made the difficult journey not only to show their respect, but to impress themselves upon the Pope and this new cardinal—for they would need his favors.

  But none turned the heads of the crowd as sharply as the young man who walked behind them. From the illustrious city of Florence, Piero Medici, solemn and autocratic, wore an emerald green doublet embroidered with fantastic pinwheels of twenty-two-karat gold that cast a luminous glow around his face, making him appear almost saintly. He led seven of his proud relatives, including his brother, Cesare’s good friend Gio Medici, down the long center aisle. Piero was the power in Florence now, but the talk was that the Medici’s control of the city had truly ceased with death of his father, Lorenzo the Magnificent. It was rumored that it would not be long before this young prince was overthrown and the Medici rule would end.

  From the city of Rome, both the Orsini and the Colonna had come. Bitter rivals for many decades, the two families were momentarily at peace. They were, however, careful to seat themselves on opposite sides of the basilica. And for good reason: a bloody fight between the two had disrupted the coronation of an earlier cardinal.

  In the front row, Guido Feltra, the powerful duke of Urbino, spoke quietly with the Pope’s most cunning adversary, Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere, nephew of the late Pope Sixtus IV and now papal delegate to France.

  Feltra leaned close to the cardinal. “I suspect our Cesare is more a soldier than a scholar,” he whispered. “Would make a great general some day, that boy, if he weren’t destined to be Pope.”

  Della Rovere bristled. “Like his father, he’s hardly above matters of the flesh. And a bit of a rake in other ways as well. Fights bulls, wrestles peasants at local fairs. Very unseemly . . . ”

  Feltra nodded. “I’ve heard his horse just won the Palio in Siena.”

  Cardinal della Rovere looked annoyed. “With trickery rather than honor. He had his rider jump off near the finish, which made the horse lighter and faster. The result was protested, of course. Still, it stood.”

  Feltra smiled. “Amazing . . . ”

  But della Rovere frowned and said, “Heed my warning, Guido Feltra. He’s full of the devil, this son of the church.”

  Giuliano della Rovere was now a dedicated enemy of the Borgia. What increased his fury, even more than his failed election, was the number of pro-Borgia cardinals Pope Alexander had just named. But failure to attend this ceremony would have been unthinkable, and della Rovere’s eyes were firmly focused on his future.

  Pope Alexander VI stood at the altar, a towering vision, tall, broad-shouldered, and mesmerizing. The stark drama of his white robes enhanced by the scarlet and gold opus anglicanum stole made him a commanding presence. At this moment his eyes shone with pride and certainty; here he reigned, alone and infallible, from this massive house of God built centuries before above the tomb of Saint Peter.

  As the mighty organ roared a triumphant Te Deum—the hymn of praise to the Lord—Alexander stepped forward, raised the red cardinal’s hat high in the air with both his hands, and with a sonorous blessing chanted in Latin solemnly placed it on the head of his son who knelt before him.

  Cesare Borgia’s eyes were cast downward as he received the Holy Benediction. Then he stood, a proud and imposing figure, as two elderly cardinals draped the purple robe of office around his broad shoulders. When they had finished, he walked forward and joined the Pope. The two holy men faced the congregation.

  Cesare was darkly handsome and powerfully built. He was taller even than his massive father, with an angular face and prominent cheekbones. His long aquiline nose was as fine as in any marble sculpture, and his dark brown eyes radiated intelligence. A hush fell over the crowd.

  But in the shadowed last row of the basilica, sitting alone in a pew, was a very fat man opulently dressed in silver and white: Gaspare Malatesta, the Lion of Rimini. Malatesta had an issue with this Spanish Pope—over a young boy who had arrived at his gate, murdered and tethered to an ass. What did he care for a Pope or his threats? Nothing. What did he care for this God? Nothing! The Lion believed none of it. Alexander was only a man—and men can die. The Lion indulged his imagination as he reminisced again on pouring ink into the holy water founts, as he had done during the Lenten season, to stain the fine garments of the cardinal and his guests to bring them all down to earth. The thought appealed to him, but now he had more important business to attend to. He leaned back smiling.

  Behind him, hidden in the shadows, Don Michelotto stood watching. And as the final glorious notes of the great Te Deum swelled to a deafening crescendo, the short, powerfully built man dressed in dark clothes slipped unseen into the narrow, unlit space behind Gaspare Malatesta. Soundlessly, he looped a garrote over Gaspare’s head and in one fluid movement pulled the lethal noose tight around the fat man’s neck.

  The Lion of Rimini gasped, his breath stopped in his throat by the grip of the rope. He tried to struggle, but his muscles, starved for blood and oxygen, twitched lamely. The last words he heard, as darkness blotted all thoughts from his brain, were whispered in his ear: “A message from the Holy Father.” Then the strangler slipped into the crowd, as quickly as he had appeared.

  Cesare Borgia followed his father, the Pope, up the aisle; in their wake were Cesare’s mother, Vanozza, his sister, Lucrezia, and his brothers, Juan and Jofre. Behind them were other family celebrants. All walked past the pew in the back row of the basilica without notice or comment. There, Gaspare Malatesta’s chin re
sted on his huge belly as if he were asleep.

  Finally, several women stopped and pointed at the comic sight, and Gaspare’s sister-in-law, mortified by what she thought to be another of his practical jokes, leaned in to awaken him. As Gaspare’s heavy body fell into the aisle, his bulging eyes staring blindly at the basilica’s magnificent ceiling, she screamed.

  4

  CARDINAL GIULIANO DELLA Rovere’s desire for vengeance grew toward obsession. Often he woke in the night cold and shivering, for Alexander had invaded his dreams. And so, as he said his prayers each morning, even as he knelt in the chapel under the watchful eyes of gigantic marble statues of merciful saints and richly colored portraits of holy martyrs, he plotted the Pope’s destruction.

  It was not only della Rovere’s defeat in his bid for the papacy that fostered these feelings, though it certainly played a part. It was his belief that Alexander was at his very core an immoral man.

  The Pope’s easygoing charm and charisma seemed to render those around him indifferent to the importance of saving souls, and helpless to resist as he placed his children in high-ranking church positions. Many of the cardinals and most kings, as well as the citizens of Rome, forgave him his excesses; they seemed to enjoy his gigantic processions, balls, banquets, spectacles, and elaborate festivities, which depleted monies that could better be used to defend the Papal States and move the armies of the church into new territories.

  In contrast to the amiable Pope Alexander, della Rovere was an impatient man with a violent temper, who never seemed happy except when hunting or at war. He worked unceasingly and could not abide play in any form. It was because of this defect in character that he considered himself a virtuous man. He cared little for anything or anyone, though he had three daughters. And in his entire life, he had truly loved only once.

  Cardinal della Rovere carried himself with a certain dignity, which would have been reassuring if not for the glimmer of the fanatic in his large dark eyes. The stiff bearing of his massive head, with its strong square cheekbones, made his face a canvas of stark lines and angles. He seldom smiled to show the beauty of his small, even teeth, and only his dimpled chin added softness. It was a face set in the Middle Ages, a living portrait of the Day of Judgment. Even the stony squareness of his body gave the impression of unbending opinion rather than strength. That he had courage and intelligence no one contested. But he was not particularly liked because of his rude and insulting language, which contrasted so sharply with the Pope’s easy elegance. Still, he was a formidable enemy.