Blood & Beauty The Borgias

Chapter 6



The concealed route between the two palaces brings him out into the booming darkness of the Vatican chapel.

He moves by a Vatican guard, whose job is to make sure the lamp that burns constantly at the altar does not go out. Across the nave, another guard sits, watching the watchman lest he should fall asleep. They both look up, then down as their pope passes. They know what they are supposed not to see.

With his own protected candle Alexander crosses into the centre of the chapel, feeling the rise of the marble under his slippered feet as it moves towards the transenna. Like many men who live inside power, he has grown used to its trappings. When his own palace was finished twenty years ago, for the first weeks he had wandered around it like a child entranced by the wonder of a new plaything. Yet his mind soon moved back to business. The assessing of petitions, the wording of agreements, the manipulation of men and money, these are the things that absorbed him, while the vaulted ceilings, tapestries and gold plate faded rapidly into the background. Wealth was necessary for status, for the respect and admiration it engendered in others. The infinite niceties of taste, however, he leaves to the more foppish of his fellow cardinals.

But not even he can walk through this newest grand chapel without appreciating its splendour and ambition. What a sly old fox Sixtus IV had been. While Rome was a city full of ancient buildings big enough to make men dizzy, Sixtus had understood that the shock of the new has its own power to impress. In the ten years since its completion, Alexander has watched the Sistine Chapel work its magic on everyone who enters: how their mouths fall open as they register the scale – the dimensions of the temple of Solomon is how it was planned, how the luminosity of the frescos of Moses and Christ bring an involuntary smile to their lips, making them crane their necks upwards, past the painted figures of the popes into the vast vaulted ceiling, the brilliant blue of a night sky peppered by stars.

He too now gazes up into the darkness. Oh, yes. It is a clever thing to make a man feel so small and humble against such majesty. Leave the wonder of a bird wing or the simplicity of the blade of grass to the saints and the hermits. Most men need to be overwhelmed in order to appreciate the divine. That is Rome’s job. Every good pope leaves something hewn in stone and marble behind him. He had witnessed that as he stood in the wings waiting for his turn: how the fever of construction took hold of the most modest as well as the most arrogant of men. But of all of them, Sixtus had been the most surprising. Here was a man who began life as a Franciscan, espousing poverty and writing pious treatises. Yet barely had the papal crown been lowered on to his humble head than he was issuing instructions to architects and engineers, growing misty-eyed at the prospect of the great chapel that would bear his name. The mounting bills had had him, Rodrigo Borgia, Vice-Chancellor, turning somersaults and selling a thousand futures of pardons to find the money. Not satisfied with that, Sixtus had rebuilt churches, his own private altar in the crumbling St Peter’s. Also a new bridge over the Tiber to bear his name. Such was his building mania that it had been uncertain as to whether he would live long enough to see this, his major project, finished. The great opening mass of the Assumption had taken place less than a year before Sixtus died and he had already been more the shell than the man.

How well Alexander remembers that ceremony: the benches groaning with dignitaries from all over Christendom, the air thick with incense, the great papal choir pouring out jubilation from its gallery stalls, so that the voices seem to descend from heaven itself. It had gone on for so long that most of the older ones fell asleep. But not him. No. He was too busy noting every detail. He had become fixated on the frescos on the upper walls; not so much the beauty of Ghirlandaio and Botticelli but the diplomatic daring on the part of Sixtus, who had managed to buy their services from Florence so soon after he had masterminded a conspiracy against the city. The intention had been to wipe out the Medici and replace them with, among others, his own nephew. Where was the pious Franciscan preacher then? Had it worked, he himself would not be standing here now. Instead he would have lived and died a wealthy vice-chancellor, blocked from higher office by the della Rovere family, which would have run the conclave as well as the state of Florence.

No, Sixtus, for all his pious prayers, had been in thrall to another kind of immortality: that of his family. It is a passion that Alexander understands through every fibre of his being.

Now it is the Borgias’ turn. For all the fancy bronze sculpture of Sixtus’s tomb, the man himself is breeding worms like any other corpse, while he, Rodrigo Borgia, holds the reins of power. Yes, there will be artistic and religious works to mark his papacy. The ceiling of the great chapel remains a challenge, but for now he is too busy with the city fortress and his new apartments and their decoration. But in terms of the immediate future, his priorities are clear. For the Borgias to achieve the next rung of immortality the bricks and mortar must be human ones: sons and daughters, cousins, nieces and nephews, each one bringing another silken thread of loyalty and influence into the web of family, secure and powerful enough to run Rome and beyond.

His mind moves over the possibilities like fingers across the beads on a rosary.

His beloved Lucrezia will be the first. What a jewel her husband will be given. A minor Spanish nobleman might have been good enough for an illegitimate cardinal’s daughter, but not the offspring of a pope. He gives a little growl of pleasure at the thought. Of course Count d’Aversa has got wind of it early, such is the well-oiled gossip machine of Rome. While the negotiations for an alliance with the house of Sforza continue, they still need Spain as a smokescreen. He will grant the man an audience and soothe his wounded pride. ‘No, no, my dear count. The rumours are put about deliberately to throw others off the scent. Of course she is yours. Just give me time to make it secure.’

What pleasure there is in the finessing of manipulation. Later, when the time is right, he will ditch the count, booting him out of town with a big enough purse to cover the bruise.

After that it will be Juan’s turn. Juan who, with his easy swagger and chatter, had climbed his way early into his heart. Already carrying the title of Duke of Gandia in Spain, he will be the great prize in the marriage stakes since it is his seed that will carry the dynasty. His wife will be legitimate and royal. Alexander knows which family he wants for him, but not yet how to achieve it. Well, it will happen. Every state and ruler in Christendom has need of papal approval for something at some point in their life. That is the beauty and power of the office. The only question is what, when and how can it be used as barter.

Then there is Jofré. Jofré – the thought of his youngest son makes him frown. He is a sweet enough child: a clumsy plump body on the edge of puberty, big moon face and gap teeth. But the truth is, there are times when Alexander wonders if he is indeed the father of a boy whose features and markedly simple disposition have more than a hint of Vannozza’s last husband, brought in to make her respectable while she was still entertaining a cardinal in her bed. It would never have been deliberate betrayal. Vannozza was too loyal for that. But who would not pass off a child between fathers, if the rewards for doing so were so great? Still, even if his suspicions are correct, he can make it work for them. It is a decision already taken: this gift horse will be a Borgia, whatever his parentage.

And finally there is Cesare.

Cesare.

Even the most doting father can see the strengths and faults within his own children. He knows his eldest son is powerful and clever. He has seen the speed of his mental swordwork and the charm he uses to salve the wounds he inflicts. But he has also felt the coldness in his soul, so different to his brother’s transparency. In many ways he would have made a better soldier than a priest. But the decision was taken early and it is too late to change it now. No great dynasty in Rome can survive without a secure hold inside the Church. And the higher they climb, the greater the chance of cultivating another pope. Alexander’s cousin, Juan Borgia Lanzo, is a good churchman, competent and loyal, but he will never get further than the College of Cardinals. No, Cesare alone has the steel and the drive to rise. He is certain of that. He already has a host of Church lawyers working on his illegitimacy. Bastard or no bastard, his son will become a cardinal.

‘Your Holiness. This is not an easy problem to solve.’

‘Then solve it as a difficult one!’

It will be done before the end of the year. And it will not be unrewarding for Cesare, however he may baulk at the idea. In a world where the politics of God can be as ruthless as the politics of man, his eldest son will surely grow to love the Church as much as he does.

‘And one more thing, Papà…’ He hears Lucrezia’s voice, soft in his ear. ‘Bring Cesare home soon. He pines for Rome. I can feel it underneath the words.’

Alexander turns and bows his head in the direction of the altar. Prayer and supplication. They come in many forms. As he moves out into the Vatican corridor, he calls for his bedchamber servant, who lies on a pallet dozing, waiting for his master’s return.

‘Come.’ He shakes the man. ‘We will breakfast and start work early today. Wake Burchard for me.’