Rome, February 1493
By January, all of Rome knew Lucrezia was due to marry Giovanni Sforza, Lord of Pesaro, and by early February the betrothal was signed, sealed, and had been executed by proxy. All that was left was for the groom to come to Rome for a wedding as lavish as the pope could muster—which would no doubt make it the most lavish the Eternal City had ever seen.
“We must call to mind the splendor and pomp of ancient Rome,” Pope Alexander declared at the start of the wedding planning. It had been a small meeting, that first one: just myself, Johannes Burchard, the master of ceremonies, and Vice-Chancellor Ascanio Sforza, who beamed throughout (and throughout all the arrangements that followed) as though he were a proud papa. As well he might, I thought darkly, for he has managed to marry off his obscure cousin to the daughter of the pope. “Romans love a spectacle; they always have. We must give them one. And we must show that the Borgias are an empire unto themselves. It shall reflect our glory.”
Burchard—a pompous, pious little German whom I couldn’t help but like for his constant dry manner—paused, his quill ceasing scratching, and intoned, “You mean it shall reflect the glory of God’s kingdom on earth, Your Holiness, surely?”
My father waved his hand at Burchard good-naturedly. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “And Lucrezia’s gown, of course, is of the utmost import … it must be a setting suitable for the crowning jewel that she is…”
Cardinal Sforza chortled. “You are asking the wrong group of people for advice on gowns, Your Holiness.”
“Yes, perhaps Madonna Giulia Farnese would be of more assistance in this area,” Burchard said coolly.
“An excellent idea, Burchard,” I said, ignoring his barb. “There is no one in Rome more fashionable than La Bella Farnese. I am sure she can advise.”
Sforza rolled his eyes at me, but I stared stonily back.
“Yes, yes, indeed,” my father said distractedly. “Perhaps I get ahead of myself there. What I really wished to speak to you gentleman about was the guest list…”
And so it began, and went on for months. One would have thought we were planning large-scale conquest rather than a wedding.
And a wedding to so undeserving a groom. It still pricked at me, like a thorn caught in the folds of my archbishop’s robes.
To make matters worse, tension was growing between Milan and Naples. The French were again making noise about enforcing their ancestral claim to the Kingdom of Naples, which was hotly disputed by—along with the Neapolitans themselves—King Ferdinand of Aragon, whose relatives reigned in Naples and who was furthermore a friend of my father’s. Indeed, as a cardinal, my father had helped broker the near-impossible match between Ferdinand and Isabella of Castile, uniting their two kingdoms on the Iberian Peninsula.
Ludovico Sforza, still insecure in the ducal crown he’d all but stolen from his nephew, was in a difficult spot politically: Venice nibbled at the edges of Milanese territory every chance they got, always waiting for their opportunity to take even bigger bites and add to their Adriatic empire; Naples was increasingly hostile given that King Ferrante’s granddaughter, Isabella, was married to the rightful duke; both Florence and the powerful Roman clan of the Orsini were friendly with Naples; and could Ludovico Sforza, even with a cousin marrying the pope’s daughter, be sure of the support of a Spanish pope against that nation’s interests? As such, he had been braying about how he would support the French if they chose to press their claim to Naples, no doubt wanting whatever scraps of protection he could get from a major European power. There were fears that the promise of free passage through the duchy of Milan would be enough to tempt the French king to come to Italy with his armies, though how likely that would be was difficult to say. But the question in my mind was: should war come, should the French come, did Pope Alexander really wish to find himself more closely allied with Milan, and against his natural allies in the Spanish king and queen?
I broached this subject with my father privately one night after the betrothal ceremony had already taken place. I was not altogether surprised that his outlook was more optimistic than mine. “Milan is a long way from Naples,” he reminded me. “Free passage through one duchy is not likely to offset the expense of such a campaign, especially when the French king does not yet know what resistance he would encounter from the rest of the Italian peninsula, particularly Venice.”
“But if King Charles does come?” I pressed.
“Cesare, do you think I have not thought of this?” he said. “If Ludovico Sforza invites the French into Italy, none of the rest of Italy will stand with him. It is a political position that would hardly be worth it for him. And Giovanni Sforza is bound by the marriage contract to provide his army when and where I call for it. His first loyalty will be to us.”
I remained silent.
“In any case,” he went on, “the betrothal has been set. They are as good as married now.”
In late May, I went to see Lucrezia as I did every week, if not more. With the wedding drawing nearer I had the sense she must be getting nervous. Could she possibly be excited? Perhaps young girls looked on their marriage with some combination of the two emotions.
I was shown into her sitting room, where she was chatting with Giulia Farnese. “Cesare!” Lucrezia cried excitedly as I entered, getting to her feet. Giulia rose and swept me a curtsy. “Your Excellency,” she murmured. “I shall leave you two to speak in private.” She swept out of the room, and a maid who’d been sitting off to one side, head bent over her embroidery, rose to leave as well. It was a moment before I recognized her—Maddalena. I smiled at her, and a pretty blush crept up her cheeks. She curtsied in my direction and left, taking her embroidery with her.
“Is Maddalena serving you well?” I asked my sister, switching to our native Catalan.
“Oh, yes!” Lucrezia enthused. “Thank you for sending her to me, germà. I discovered she is a most gifted seamstress and can do wonders with embroidery and lace. She is working on some items for my trousseau.”
“Ah,” I said. “I am glad. And tell me, how are you feeling with the wedding so soon approaching?”
Her face took on a contemplative look. “I am a bit nervous, of course,” she said. “I hope I will like my bridegroom, and that I shall be pleasing to him as well.”
“How could you be anything but pleasing?” I asked with a smile.
“I can only hope he thinks so!” she said. “I hope he is kind, and handsome, and that we shall come to love each other. Surely we shall, we must, for why else would God be bringing us together?”
“Indeed,” I said softly. My sister was wiser in the ways of the world than many other girls her age, but in some ways, she was still so innocent. If she believed all marriages were blissful gifts from God, I did not have it in my heart to disillusion her.
“But I … I am sure I shall be happy,” she said resolutely, but I could hear her uncertainty plain as day. “I am doing my part to help our family secure our place in the world and am honored to do so.”
This was so close an echo of the words our father had spoken when he’d told me about the Sforza match that I had no doubt he had repeated them to my sister. Yet she seemed to believe them, or was trying to.
How I wished I could have changed all this for her and found her a handsome prince out of some old heroic story to win her love, rather than this cold arrangement of contracts and armies and alliances and favors owed.
But my promise was not broken yet. Perhaps the groom could be persuaded to keep his bride in Rome. For no matter what Lucrezia—or our father—said, it was Giovanni Sforza who was advancing in the world with this match, not the Borgia family.
“I certainly pray you shall be happy,” I said aloud. I took one of her hands and brought it to my lips. “I pray for it every day.”
She threw her arms around me. “I know you do, dearest Cesare. You are the most beloved to me, I think, of any person in the world.”
“And you to me,” I said, holding her tightly.
Our talk soon turned to other things: how Mother was upset (but not surprised, protocol being what it was) to have not been invited to Lucrezia’s wedding, and the astonishing number of callers Giulia had been receiving, ones bringing her gifts and bribes in the hopes that she might advocate for them to the pope as they lay in bed together. “It is quite ridiculous, for it is not as if she needs any more costly cloth or jewelry or fine wines,” Lucrezia said. “Papa gives her all that she could possibly want.”
“Ah, but that is how the game is played, Crezia,” I said.
As I was leaving later that afternoon, I passed the maid, Maddalena, in the hallway. “Wait,” I said, and she stopped, startled. “Maddalena.”
“Your Excellency,” she said, dipping down in a curtsy.
“I will not keep you,” I said. “I only wished to know how you are finding your new position.”
Her eyes sparkled as they met mine, and I noticed anew what an extraordinary amber color they were. “I like it very much, Your Excellency,” she said, genuine contentment in her voice. “I am doing some embroidery for the lady Lucrezia, which is my favorite art to practice. I cannot thank you enough.”
“You need not mention it. And you are safer here, yes?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, her eyes darkening slightly at the allusion to our first meeting.
“Eccellente. I am pleased to hear it. My sister was speaking to me of your fine work, and since you have made her happy, it is I who owe you thanks.”
She smiled once more, and I was surprised to realize I had been trying to bring forth that exact expression again. “You are a fine man, Your Excellency. If you don’t mind my saying so.”
I was taken aback by her words. “I thank you,” I said. “I shall endeavor to be worthy of such praise.”
And as I took my leave, I found I truly did want to be worthy.