Vicovaro, July 1494
King Charles was coming. And far too few in Italy were inclined to try to stop him. And, unfortunately, the ones who were so inclined seemed to be underestimating the threat facing us.
“And Your Highness thinks this plan will work?” I asked the King of Naples, not bothering to hide my skepticism.
I could feel my father’s disapproving glance from where he sat beside me, at the head of the table. Across from me, King Alfonso of Naples merely stared at me, his upper lip curling in displeasure. He had taken the crown a few months earlier, upon the ill-timed death of his father Ferrante—the scourge of popes, even at the end—and this, coupled with Ludovico Sforza’s enthusiastic invitation, finally prompted King Charles of France to announce his invasion of Italy.
“Does Your Eminence have a better idea?” Virginio Orsini asked from beside the king.
I exhaled slowly, thinking carefully before I spoke. Despite my years of study of military history and strategy, and of the geography of the Italian peninsula, I could not hold a candle to the tested battle experience of Virginio Orsini, one of the most noted of the many condottieri on the Italian peninsula, who currently had a condotta to serve under King Alfonso as general-in-chief of the army of Naples. I had to tread carefully here; we needed to keep him on our side, and yet I was determined to have my say. I had something of value to contribute, and wanted these men to know it.
“I certainly understand His Serene Highness’s desire to keep the bulk of the Neapolitan forces around the city of Naples,” I said, nodding to King Alfonso. “It is the obvious choice, given that the kingdom and more specifically its capital is the French king’s aim. Yet why wait until they get that far? Have Prince Ferrantino,” I went on, referring to Alfonso’s eldest son and heir to the throne, who was to command the Neapolitan forces, “bring his troops into the northernmost part of the Romagna to see if they can halt the French advance before ever nearing Naples. His force should be able to close the Apennine pass to the French.”
Silence fell as my proposal was considered.
“And,” I added, “this strategy has the added benefit of being near enough to Milan’s territory that Ludovico Sforza should feel sufficiently threatened, which is all to the good.”
The silence continued until Virginio Orsini finally spoke. “His Eminence is right,” he said. “This makes more sense. And then Prince Ferrantino will be near in case Prince Federigo needs aid in his assault on Genoa.”
This last piece was key; King Alfonso’s brother Prince Federigo would need to take and hold the port city of Genoa on the west coast to ensure the French could not access it to resupply and reinforce their army.
Virginio looked from the pope to King Alfonso. “I am in accord, so long as Your Holiness and Your Highness are as well.”
King Alfonso nodded, and his face relaxed somewhat—I had yet to see him smile, and he did not seem like the sort of man who did so often, if at all. “I shall keep a guard around the city, of course,” he said, “but I agree that Cardinal Borgia’s plan is sound. If we can stop the French farther from my kingdom, all the better.”
My father’s eyes rested on me, and I basked in the approval I saw there. “We concur. Cardinal Borgia proves most sound in his judgments.”
“When shall we deploy?” Virginio asked.
“As soon as possible,” I said, before my father could speak. “Charles announced his intention to invade four months ago. He could be crossing the Alps as we speak. We don’t have any time to waste.”
King Alfonso snorted. “We would know if he were that close,” he said. “We will need more time to prepare.”
“It is a large force we are mustering,” Virginio said, looking to the pope. “We shall need time, as His Highness says, and I believe we have more than His Eminence suggests.”
My father considered this carefully. “We are inclined to agree,” he said at last. “But it is also true there is little time to spare. Let us be ready as soon as is possible.”
The pope rose, and everyone else followed. “We have done all we can here, my lords,” he continued. “Tomorrow let us return to our respective homes and begin our work.”
The pope left the room, and I trailed after him, with King Alfonso not far behind. Virginio lingered in the large room, and I wondered if he was as low on optimism as I.
As the sun was setting later that evening, I found my father up on the ramparts of the Orsini stronghold in which we had gathered to meet. Forgoing the formality of a greeting, I asked, “And what is your assessment of what has been accomplished here today? Do you think we shall hold off the French invasion?”
“We shall prevail,” Pope Alexander said without hesitation. “God is on our side, for our cause is righteous. Alfonso is Ferrante’s son and heir—God rest his soul—and should by rights sit the throne of Naples. Our Lord sees this and shall give us victory.”
“And what is the size of Our Lord’s army?” I inquired. “If He would be so good as to let us know, we could refine our strategy, and sleep easier in the coming nights.”
My father clucked his disapproval. “Blasphemy, Cesare.”
I bit down on my tongue to keep from replying. Who could guess at what a pope who kept a mistress and made his son a cardinal might actually find blasphemous?
“The Lord will give us victory,” he said again. “And our strategy is a good one, thanks in part to you,” he went on. “Prince Ferrantino is a fine commander, and there is none better than Virginio Orsini. We’ve Florence on our side and shall send for Giovanni Sforza and his force from Pesaro as well. He shall meet Ferrantino’s force in the northern Romagna and add to their numbers.”
“Florence shall be of no help to us militarily,” I said bluntly. “You know that.”
“They can refuse Charles passage through their lands, should he take the route through Tuscany.”
“And how will they stop him? When Charles does not turn around and take his army back to France after being asked politely, what shall that fool Piero de’ Medici do?”
Father sighed. “I accept that Florence will likely not be able to halt them, but they are on our side politically at least, which is more than we can say for the rest of Italy.” He closed his eyes briefly. “Would that Lorenzo de’ Medici were still alive. I should dearly like to have his aid in this.”
I nodded my agreement. The late Lorenzo, whom many called Il Magnifico, had been an unparalleled statesman. Had he been alive to help us, no doubt this situation would not seem quite so dire. Florence had long been friendly with France, but I doubted Lorenzo de’ Medici would have desired for them to be meddling too closely in the affairs of Italy. His successor, his eldest son Piero, was by all accounts mismanaging the business of Florence, from his family’s bank to the government. One of Lorenzo’s younger sons was a cardinal now, and while he showed similar political savvy to his father, he was still young and untried, and too unknown in Florence—having been given to the Church at a young age—to make him a plausible rallying point for the people there.
In the years following Lorenzo’s death, a preacher had risen to prominence in Florence, a Dominican friar by the name of Girolamo Savonarola. He railed against the excesses of the Medici family and, lately, of Holy Mother Church itself. Father had been keeping a close eye on the situation, and we’d received word that Savonarola’s sermons throughout Lent this past year had been largely concerned with a scourge that was coming to Italy to sweep away all the corruption and make the peninsula pleasing to God once more. Some of his militaristic language strongly suggested he considered King Charles VIII of France to be this very scourge.
“That said, I might trade a living Lorenzo de’ Medici for a Venice willing to involve herself rather than remain neutral,” I said, somewhat bitterly. Venice had enough might—both financial and military—that had she declared herself opposed to Charles’s coming invasion, he likely would have been given pause. But Venice kept herself above the conflict embroiling the Italian peninsula, as she always did unless there was something in it for her.
Once again I could not help but dream of a united Italy, one strong enough that foreign invaders could not pick her apart at will. If only all the petty princelings and lords could put aside their differences and join together. But they would never come to it on their own. They needed a strong leader to unite them, one as mighty as Giulio Cesare had been.
Father chuckled, bringing me back to our conversation. “Agreed.”
We looked out over the vast countryside spread before the castle before he spoke again. “But you, Cesare,” he said, turning to me. “What think you of our chances? You did well today,” he added. “Your plan is a sound one, and has aided us greatly, I daresay.”
I kept my smile of pride to myself. “I do not know as we can stop them,” I said bluntly. “I do not think our entire force together—Naples, Orsini, and the few papal troops we have—is enough to repel them. Their numbers are greater, and I have heard of a new kind of siege gun they have, one that shoots iron instead of stone, and can easily be maneuvered and transported. If that is true, I do not know how any force in Italy can stand against them. And,” I added, “we are starting too late. As I said, they could be nearer than we know. We may be too late to stop them.”
Father frowned. “The odds are not good, but I do not think defeat is inevitable. You forget Giovanni Sforza’s force in your tally. I will write to him as soon as we return to Rome, and he will bring his army directly.”
I laughed outright. “Giovanni Sforza’s force is hardly enough to tip the scale,” I said. “Even if he brings it. He has no desire to find himself on the opposite side of a battlefield from his cousin Ludovico.” And Ascanio, I thought silently. The Milanese snake. In consistory in March, when the pope announced he favored the claim of Alfonso of Naples after the death of King Ferrante, Ascanio had sided with his brother and come out in support of the French claim, showing his true colors at last. He had, however, spoken harshly against Giuliano della Rovere’s push to form a council to depose Pope Alexander, and if anything could save him from the pope’s wrath after this conflict was over—if we survived it—it would be this.
“He will bring it,” Father said. “If he knows what’s good for him.”
“I really and truly do not think he does.” At least he had gotten Lucrezia out of harm’s way. In February he had finally insisted on taking her to Pesaro, and the pope, out of reasons to forbid it, had acquiesced. I had tried to stop it, sure the coming conflict would prove that Lucrezia’s husband must be set aside, and in his own castle he would surely consummate the marriage—but I was, as was so often the case, overruled. I had suffered many a sleepless night of shame that I had not been able to keep my promise to her.
But with the French on their way, I was glad that Lucrezia was out of the way in Pesaro, a place of no interest to King Charles. Rome would soon become unsafe for us all, let alone a woman as young and precious as my sister.
I wondered, fleetingly, if she had taken pretty Maddalena with her. Since Lucrezia’s departure I had sadly had no occasion to visit the Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico.
“And,” Father went on, “you forget what is perhaps our best card to play, beyond armies and military strategy. Only the Pope of Rome can invest a man with the crown of Naples. Charles cannot afford to alienate and make an enemy of me. He must stay in my good graces.”
“Giuliano della Rovere has a solution to that,” I said darkly. “He means for Charles to depose you and make him pope, and he shall invest the French king with the crown.”
“Della Rovere overreaches,” Father said, irritated but not worried. “It is no small feat to depose a pope. Even a king would hesitate before doing so. I am God’s chosen, remember.”
He said these last words without a hint of irony, and I wondered if he had come to believe them; if he truly believed now that God had set him on St. Peter’s throne rather than his own wealth and politics and political maneuvering.
Yet it did not matter. Nothing did. We might not even survive the next few months. “I do not think this will end well for us,” I said, turning to go back into the castle. “And no matter what happens, it certainly will not end well for Italy.”