Rome, November 1494
It was a good plan, the plan that we’d made at Vicovaro. Yet—as I’d known—we’d put it into action too late.
“He had one job, the fool!” Father snarled, tossing the letter to the floor. He whirled away from me and paced the floor. “Piero de’ Medici had one task and he, worthless fool that he is, couldn’t even do that. Oh, Lorenzo is rolling in his grave, make no mistake.” He stalked to the window and peered out as though he expected the French to be at the gates of the Vatican. “All the idiotic boy had to do was block the roads into Tuscany—easy enough from a military standpoint—and he could not manage it.”
I warned you thus was upon my tongue, fighting to be let out, but I held back. “Piero de’ Medici is not much of a military strategist. Or much of a strategist about anything, for that matter.”
If Father heard me, he paid no heed. “If he had accomplished this one minor thing, we would not have the French breathing down our necks, and our army scrambling to catch up.”
“Charles surely knew we would put the bulk of the army in the Romagna, and he gambled that Florence would yield easily,” I said. “A rather certain gamble, given the state of their army and the intelligence of their leader.”
“Piero is paying for his sins, that much is certain,” Father said, sitting heavily in a gold-painted chair. He waved at the letter, and I bent to pick it up. “Read it. The Florentines have risen up against him and driven the Medici from the city.”
That I had not expected. “Lorenzo is indeed rolling in his grave,” I said, scanning the rest of the letter. “And so the madman Savonarola rules in Florence now.”
Father nodded grimly. “More or less. And if he thinks he shall last the year, he is more deluded than I thought. The Florentines shall miss the Medici before too long.”
We had learned that Savonarola had met with Charles, in Genoa. He had hailed the French king as “an emblem of divine justice,” who had “been sent by God to chastise the tyrants of Italy,” and predicted total success for the king’s endeavor. With much of the Florentine government and populace under the sway of such a man, we could expect no help from Florence.
I kept reading. “God’s teeth,” I swore. “Charles is declaring a crusade? He has proclaimed that his possession of the Kingdom of Naples is key to reclaiming the Holy Land?”
Father sighed impatiently. “Outrageous, of course. He thinks that declaring a crusade—of sorts—will force me to let him proceed. But he is wrong.”
“And so?” I asked, folding the letter and handing it to him. He snatched it back, his irritation showing in the movement.
“We have already recalled the bulk of our forces back to Rome, to defend the city,” Father said. “Giovanni Sforza, damn him, has not responded. I sent another letter last week, and still no word.”
Sforza was never going to come. Who could have predicted this? I wanted to say sarcastically. Instead I simply asked, “But what do we do now?”
He turned to me with an expression I had never seen on his face: haunted, almost defeated. “Now we wait.”
“But—”
“We wait,” he repeated, as though he were trying to convince himself as much as me. “There is nothing else we can do.”
Another message came two days later, this one from the French king himself. “Father,” I said, arriving in his bedroom late that night, still dressed in my red robes and cap. He was alone, only a servant present to help him undress for bed. He waved the man away impatiently when I entered. “What is it, my son?” he asked.
I lifted the letter in my hand. I had intercepted the messenger, who had dared not defy a cardinal—being a prince of the Church did have some advantages—in order to bring the news to the pope myself. “Another message. This one from King Charles.”
Father closed his eyes as though praying—and perhaps he was, for a moment later he crossed himself and opened his eyes. “Tell me what it says, Cesare,” he said, sitting in a chair beside his bed.
I dropped my eyes to the Latin words on the page, though they had no doubt imprinted themselves in my mind. “Charles repeats his proclamation that he shall mount a crusade to reclaim the Holy Land, and to do so he needs control of the Kingdom of Naples. He demands that His Holiness, Pope Alexander VI, grant him free passage through the Papal States.”
“No. We will do no such thing.”
I admired his resolve even as I understood it was not wise. “The College of Cardinals will not like it,” I warned reluctantly. “Nor will the people of Rome.”
Father snorted. “The College of Cardinals, indeed. Half of them are traitors. Why, della Rovere rides with the French king, though why that surprises me I could not say.”
He rose and began to pace. “As for the people of Rome…” He trailed off. “Their lives are in my hands,” he said, more to himself than me. “We must pray I can keep them safe.”
Touched by the genuine emotion in his voice, I nodded. “Indeed, Holy Father,” I said. “I will pray for that very thing.”
And I would. I would pray that the Holy Father could guide us all through, even though our army and weaponry were no match for the French; even though all of Italy wished to simply hand Naples over to the French and be done with it; even though the Colonna family had already raised the French flag over the fortress of Ostia at the mouth of the Tiber. I would pray for the Holy Father to lead us through this, as he was the only one who cared to try.
And though I could not imagine how he could possibly best the French, I knew that if anyone could, it was Rodrigo Borgia.
A few days later, we got a sample of the forces ranged against us.
The pope received the envoys of the Duke of Ferrara, who had arrived some days ago and were clamoring for an audience. Apparently their master had some advice he wished to impart to the Holy Father. Duke Ercole was a seasoned old condottiere who thought much of himself and his whole noble d’Este family, so I had no doubt his advice would be as pompous and arrogant as possible.
Father received the envoys in his audience chamber, where I was present, as were a number of cardinals who had not (yet) fled the Holy City before the French advance. And, of course, Burchard.
I eyed the red-robed prelates where they were seated at the sides of the room, like a mass of birds waiting to see if the branch on which they sat would prove sturdy. Which of you shall prove loyal, in the end? I wondered savagely.
I stood to my father’s right, watching impassively as the two men approached the papal throne, bowed, and kissed both the Fisherman’s ring and the pope’s slipper. “We greet you well, Your Excellencies,” Father said, as jovial as ever. “I trust your journey from Ferrara was not too arduous, and that your accommodations here in the Vatican have been to your liking.”
“Your Holiness’s hospitality is second to none, as always,” one of the men replied smoothly.
“However, the journey was not as relaxed as we might have liked,” the other man spoke up. “These are troubled and dangerous times.”
Father sighed heavily. “Indeed. No doubt this brings us to the matter you wish to discuss.”
“We thank you profusely, Holy Father, for granting us this audience, and wish to extend the greetings of our most illustrious master Ercole d’Este, Duke of Ferrara,” the first man went on. “It is indeed regarding the French invasion that he has sent us, that he may offer Your Holiness some counsel in these difficult times.”
“Indeed.” Father waved a hand lazily. “Well, let us hear it.”
“Duke Ercole is most upset at the French king’s presumption to the Italian peninsula,” the first man began. “He has no desire to bow before a French king.”
“Indeed?” I said aloud, causing both men to turn toward me in surprise. When the pope did not interject, I continued, noticing the slight look of irritation on both men’s faces when they realized they must listen respectfully to the bastard son, the upstart cardinal. “If that is so, why does His Grace the duke not join his troops to ours, that we might successfully drive the French from Italy?”
“Quite right, Cardinal Borgia,” Father said, turning back to the envoys. “Why does Duke Ercole not come to our aid? A man of his military renown and expertise would be of great assistance in this crisis.”
“His Grace regrets that he cannot offer military aid, as much as he may want to,” the first man said. “He has his own people and their interests to think of before his own.”
“He has his Holy Father to think of as well,” the pope reminded them.
An awkward silence fell. “Of course! There is no one dearer to Duke Ercole’s heart than Your Holiness,” the second man finally chimed in. “This is why he has sent us to tender his advice.”
“Yes, yes. We are most eager to hear this advice.”
“Duke Ercole knows that Your Holiness has troops assembled together with Virginio Orsini and with King Alfonso and his son, the crown prince,” the second envoy went on. “He knows, too, that such a force—mighty as it is—likely cannot withstand or repel the French.”
“Is that so?” Father said, a slight smile on his face. “We keep hearing of the wonders of this French army and their cannon, and yet we do not know as they have been truly tested yet. The north of Italy thus far has proven more than willing to lie on her back for these invaders.”
Another heavy silence filled the room. The second man cleared his throat. “That is neither here nor there, Holiness,” he said. “Duke Ercole would encourage you to save your sacred person and flee Rome.”
“And what becomes of Rome then, Excellency? What becomes of our people?”
“Holiness, the Spanish house of Aragon is not an ally worth supporting,” the second man went on. “They cannot withstand the French, who do have a claim on the throne of Naples, and there is no need for you—and the rest of Italy—to fall with the Aragonese. His Grace feels it is best if we let the French king have what he came for, in the hope of preserving as many lives and as much territory as we can. Soon enough he will go back to France, and—”
Father held up a hand, and the man broke off. “When we said, ‘our people,’ Your Excellency,” Father said, “rest assured we meant the people of Rome. Not those of Spain or Spanish descent, which is how you seem to have taken my words.”
“Apologies, Holiness, I only meant—”
“Mark my words, gentlemen,” Father went on. “My first concern is only ever, first and foremost, for the security of the Italian peninsula. My thoughts and desires are quite aligned with your master’s in that. I would sooner give up St. Peter’s throne, and my very life, before I would bend the knee and become the creature of the King of France.”
I felt a chill encompass my body at the power of these words, at the absolute conviction with which they were spoken. This time the silence that overcame the room was stunned. And the pope continued to speak, his voice ringing off the marble walls and floor of the audience chamber as he continued to drop the plural pronoun in favor of the singular. “I might be a Spaniard by birth, but Italy is my home now, and I love it no less for it not being the place of my birth. And God the Father and his Blessed Son together forbid that I should see the Italian peninsula in the hands of anyone but Italians, so long as I may live in His service.” He paused, and the silence in the room remained absolute. “This is why we will not yield to the French king, Your Excellencies. We trust you can convey our feelings on this matter to His Grace Duke Ercole.”
After a long pause, the first envoy raised his head. I saw a glimmer of moisture in his eyes. “Your Holiness speaks very powerfully,” he said at last. “I understand completely and will be honored to report your words and feelings to His Grace.”
“See that you do,” Father replied. “We would have His Grace understand our position with perfect clarity.”
“We will see to it,” the second man said. They bowed before the papal throne before backing out of the room, the audience at an end.
I leaned closer to my father as the gathered cardinals turned to one another and began murmuring. “Impressive, Father,” I said softly. “I wonder what King Charles will make of such words, should he hear of them.”
He glanced at me impassively. “He may make whatever he likes of them,” he said. “They are true.”