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What is honor compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms, or the memory of a brother's smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy.
George R. R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire.
1456
When he hears his brother has finally arrived, Rodrigo Borgia runs full-tilt across what feels like half the Vatican, without an ounce of shame. Even when he trips up, still unused to robes, he shakes himself off and barely slows down.
In consistory with his holy uncle and fellow-cardinals, it takes all his focus sometimes to keep his posture, his speech, even his thoughts as dignified as the others. At university he could easily command the attention and respect of anyone around him, but here he is the youngest and newest cardinal. Rodrigo wears his title and scarlet trappings proudly, yet his age and heritage are still blows against him, at least in the eyes of others.
But on this day, those hindrances are honors; he is young and a foreigner, but he is no longer alone. The overwhelming light of his family’s new power will dazzle him less when he shares his place in the sun. So he runs, boyish in his excitement, and bursts into the courtyard, shouting his brother’s name at the top of his voice.
Pedro Luis stumbles, startled, dismounting from his road-weary horse, but regains his footing on bright new Roman cobblestones. He beams to see Rodrigo; they haven’t met in nearly a year, with the elder brother finishing his studies in Bologna and the younger still at home in Valencia. Their embrace is warm, familiar, even though Rodrigo’s still winded from his sprint and his brother’s friendly clap across the back doesn’t help.
“You look well, brother,” Pedro Luis says, holding him at arm’s length, and surveying carefully. “Authority treats you soundly, I see.”
“Rather better than your journey’s treated you,” Rodrigo laughs. Pedro Luis has never had an especially strong constitution, so Rodrigo is pleased that his brother does not look ill, merely bedraggled. His clothes are rumpled, there’s a smattering of harsh red fleabites along his jawbone, and he smells of dirt, sour sweat, and horse.
Pedro Luis shrugs.
“It’s impossible to live well when traveling. I’m not sure whether it’s worse to sleep in a tent or some God-forsaken inn full of ravenous fleas and bad porridge.”
“I can’t speak for the fleas, but I promise you, you’ll eat like a king here.”
The squabbles and machinations seemingly inherent to his new position may frustrate and even disturb Rodrigo, but he’s finding it very easy to get used to the accompanying luxuries.
“Which reminds me, His Holiness requested that you dine with him your first night in Rome. I have my station and my orders; you need yours.”
His brother blinks, anxiety creeping into his voice.
“Has he changed much, our uncle?”
Rodrigo frowns.
“Yes, and no, I suppose.”
Alonso Borgia had been well-suited for the priesthood: pious and kind, with a stable, steady intellect. Rodrigo remembers from his childhood the cardinal’s rare visits home, the excitement that would swirl through their house. Eager to impress, he’d memorize long passages of his studies, Dante or the Psalms, and recite them for his uncle, half chant, half performance. He had a sharp mind, Alonso always said, his tone pleased, and a strong voice. But did he understand the words he spoke so well, and the spirit behind them? Rodrigo would earnestly proclaim that he did, struggle valiantly to articulate his thoughts, and be rewarded with a smile of approval and further questions.
Under his new name, Callixtus, Alonso is also well-suited for the papacy, at least in theory. In his more cynical moments, Rodrigo wonders how his uncle ever managed to survive the College of Cardinals, let alone be lifted up on high.
Of course, the holy church’s worldly princes had many considerations in conclave. His uncle’s faith and steadfastness will make him a stable leader, but his age will keep his pontificate brief. The pope is an old man, nearly eighty, his legs so stiffened by arthritis that he sometimes needs Rodrigo to help him into St. Peter’s chair.
The most powerful cardinals, those of the old Italian families, ever squabbling and striving against each other, had been unable to agree which of their number to elevate. Their choice had been unexpected; a Catalan, and a good and decent man. Never before had there been a Spanish pope, even a man elected as a placeholder. When Rodrigo heard the news, his first reaction had been surprise, even shock. When he considered the unparalleled holiness and honor of the office, the church’s proud history and lore, and his uncle’s humble goodness, he felt such a rush of emotions that he could barely comprehend them himself. His heart had clenched in his chest, overwhelmed with joy, fear, and a burning desire for his family to prove themselves worthy.
It was not until he had become a cardinal himself that Rodrigo realized the intricacies of the church hierarchy, and what a strange choice his uncle had been. For even if Alonso Borgia is perhaps too meek to bear the weight of the papal crown easily, any one of this nest of scarlet vipers, frantically grasping for temporal power, would surely profane the sacred supremacy of the church. Surely a pope ought to be visionary, decisive, and yet humble before God? Many of these cardinals know no humility whatsoever, and Rodrigo finds it profoundly disturbing.
He watches his uncle struggle to carry the burden of duty and adoration, to gain the cardinals’ respect and handle their ceaseless corruption and strife, and wonders what he’s been thrown into, and how to do what is right, what must be done. He would give his all to help his uncle, and he will help himself, but their family needs more than a simple priest raised on high, and the passionate, inexperienced capabilities of an errant scholar.
In the courtyard, Rodrigo throws an arm around his brother’s shoulders, and turns him away from the clear, cold air and pale sunlight, heading indoors.
“I think you will find that the Vatican is…different from what we might have expected. Not all priests are as suited for the calling as our uncle was. As he still is.”
“And you? You wear a cardinal’s robes well, as I’ve said, but will you make a good priest?”
Rodrigo flinches.
“I’m not a priest. I’m a cardinal-deacon.”
“For now.”
Rodrigo loves God, and he respects the church, respects it too much to turn a blind eye to the flaws he has recently glimpsed in its inner sanctum. But when he walks the streets of Rome, he sees the city of emperors as well as the city of angels. When he delves into his books, he reads the words of Julius Caesar as closely as he does St. Paul. And besides, he’s far too accustomed to the company of women.
“I took a vow to spill my blood for my church, but I made no promises about spilling my seed, for the church or otherwise, and I’d like to keep it that way. At least for now.”
Pedro Luis laughs.
“Blunt, brother, but I could not agree more. In all seriousness, though, do you know if our uncle wants you to be ordained?”
“He wants me to assist him with politics and debate, as I am. As for spiritual matters, he says that is to be my decision, not his, although he would welcome my help.”
“And…do you have any idea what his plans are for me?”
“They’re all completely secular, don’t worry. He’s planning to give you the keys of the Castel Sant’Angelo, and no doubt a whole host of other offices, perhaps titles as well. But you’re to help with the running of Rome and the Papal States, not the church.”
“I should like to see him. Give him my congratulations, homage, and thanks.”
“Bathe first. I’m not allowing you into the papal apartments like that.”
“I don’t smell that badly, do I?”
Rodrigo grins mockingly.
“His Holiness wouldn’t recognize you. ‘What, my noble nephew? I mistook you for a dealer of horse piss.’”
Pedro Luis nudges him with an elbow, laughing.
“Not even in Rome would someone try to sell that.”
“Why not? Might make a good weapon. Or you could pass it off as cheap wine.”
Pedro Luis shudders dramatically.
“Don’t remind me. I’ve gone through seven circles of horrid inns, remember?”
“Yes, well, all that’s over. Welcome to Rome. Before you get too comfortable, let me remind you that half the city’s sunk into a swamp and reeks far, far worse than you do.”
“I believe I’ve passed through some of that part. Apparently, the city of heaven smells like hell."
1458
In St. Peter’s, the bells ring, calling out to his uncle’s departed soul, but Rodrigo can hardly hear them over the shouts and murmurs of the threatening crowd.
It is not unheard of for riots to follow in the wake of a pope’s death, with Rome descending into chaos, looting, and violence. This, though, is more than common miscreants seizing their chance. This is something much uglier, and all that anger, all that vitriol, is for them. Rodrigo, his brother, every Spanish official and priest and delegate.
Such cowards, part of him thinks, enraged. They did not take to the streets when a Spanish pope was elected. Not once in the two years this Spanish pope served them well. There had been grumbling, yes, but only when God is no longer watching them through foreign eyes and speaking with a foreign tongue do they act.
The pope is dead, but the foundations he built for protection and support remain, and the people want to tear them down.
Your time here is done, the mob tells him. This is not your city, not your church, not your place. Get out. Go home.
Rome wants no Catalan cardinals.
Cowards, all of them, blind and foolish cowards. And yet so very sure of themselves.
Just as the Curia and the bishops and all the great Italian families are sure of themselves, comfortable in their positions and their ancient ties. The placeholder pope is dead, and Rome is once more theirs, as it has always been. The city of emperors, their history, their homes. Not for you.
But Rome is also the city of God, and Catalans worship Him as truly as Romans. God lives in the Basilica de Santa Maria de Xativa, where Rodrigo was baptized, and his uncle before him; God lives in St. Peter’s also, and watches over his uncle’s body.
So, then, Rome is his, and theirs, as much as it is the Romans’. He has as much right to be there as any.
The other cardinals may not believe in that right, but there will be no Rome to rule if the mob burns it down, so for once they do something useful, and they listen to him. Rodrigo orders patrols, and drills, and arrests if necessary, if there is any vandalism or violence even hinted at. He knows, of course, that it is happening, somewhere out there. They are not just cursing his name in the streets.
“They hate us,” Pedro Luis hisses in his ear, when he steps away from the troops and the flock of cardinals and breathes by himself for a moment, trying not to think of his uncle’s corpse or the shouting. Grief comes later. Fear comes later. This is now.
“I’ve heard.”
“They’re making threats, against any Spaniard, against our very lives!”
“No one would dare kill a cardinal,” Rodrigo says with a confidence he does not entirely feel, and forgets one important thing.
“I am not a cardinal, Rodrigo!”
“We have troops and influence and the Castel Sant’Angelo, remember? Your fortress? They have nothing but prejudices and the heat will soon burn itself off.”
Pedro Luis shakes his head frantically. There are droplets of sweat beading on his forehead.
“I want to get out. Just out to the country, where it’s safer. We can come back into the city when the riots are over.”
Rodrigo can feel a pounding inside his skull, resonating with the distant bells, and he desperately wants to lie down. But he can’t, because the riots may burn themselves out, or they may not stop unless they are forced to stop. He does not know. He has never stopped a riot before. He’s never heard half a city screaming for him to deny his vows and go back to where he came from.
“If we leave now, we’re lost. Even when we come back, they’ll know they’ve turned us out once. They can do it again.”
There is something sorrowful in his brother’s eyes. His voice is steady and quiet.
“Rodrigo, surely you would rather lose your position than your life.”
Your blood for the church. Your blood for your pride.
“I would rather not give up hope of both.”
“Come with me, please. I want you to be safe.”
“Stay here with me. I’ll make sure you’re protected.”
“I…I can’t.”
The momentary calm is gone: his brother’s face is anguished and frightened. Rodrigo feels much older than he did just a few days before; suddenly it seems Pedro Luis looks younger.
“Very well. We can’t all be brave.”
The words slip out, falling cold and harsh and so bitter, and as soon as his mouth opens he wants to call them back.
But he’s said them, and Pedro Luis turns his face away, and then turns to leave too.
“Wait—”
Rodrigo reaches out, puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
His brother smiles stiffly.
“It’s nothing. You’ll be brave, I’ll be safe, and we’ll see each other on the other side.”
Nine days after the pope’s death, the streets are empty and eerily peaceful, scattered with discarded torches, sodden rags, scraps of rotting food. The cardinals prepare for conclave, and Rodrigo allows himself to feel grief for his uncle, and stirrings of triumph at surviving the crisis.
A servant of Pedro Luis’s, mud-splattered and harried, rides into Rome alone.
His brother, it seems, is dead too.
He does not believe it, does not want to believe it, but the words sink into his ears and questions come bubbling up.
“Where is his…his body? Did you apprehend his murderers? Have they been punished?”
“He wasn’t slain, Your Eminence. It was a fever.”
Not the mob, then. No fulfilled threats, no murder of those Catalans who wouldn’t go back where they came from. A fever. A thrice-damned ordinary fever, the sort that might kill any man. His brother, not just any man. His brother.
Rodrigo stopped the riots; he could have protected Pedro Luis from the riots. Men and arms and mortal wounds can be thwarted. Sickness is in God’s hands; he could offer no protection. He could have tried. He could have given prayers and comfort.
I should have gone with him.
He should have stayed with me.
The last Borgia left in Rome walks into conclave the next morning, trying to keep his legs from shaking.
Rodrigo does not believe he slept all that night, although he does not know for certain. His prayers and tears and sudden crushing loneliness have all begun to blur together. He had to be alone, though. There is no one here he trusts enough to see him grieve.
Certainly, he cannot show any weakness before the conclave. Red-capped heads bend together around him, and he hears the whispers, the speculation. Now that the riots are over, they are smug and secure once more.
Rodrigo has never felt such hate as he does at that moment. It sings in his blood and stiffens his spine, and he feels horribly, painfully alive.
Stripped of his family, they think he is nothing, but he will prove them wrong. He may be the last of his kind for now, but he’ll also be the first of something new. A new man for a new world.
In sheer, practical terms, he is the vice-chancellor of the Curia; his uncle granted him that along with so much more, and he will only give up this power if he sits on St. Peter’s throne. However alone he may feel, however God and Fortune test him, he is here to stay.
1476
It’s a weakness, certainly. That’s what they teach; forty days tempted in the wilderness, and never once did their savior give in. No weakness there. No sins of the flesh.
Rodrigo takes his vows when he is ordained, and means with all his heart to follow them. He tries, certainly. It takes longer than forty days for him to break; for months he is chaste. Afterwards, he confesses fully and prays for forgiveness. The second time, he is already weakened, and the temptation proves too much. It is over in a matter of days. There is no third attempt.
It is not lust that ruins him, although it surely doesn’t help. What he misses most is sweeter and stronger, softness and affection and warmth. He found his calling too late, perhaps, when he already understood all the comforts and pleasures women could give him. Besides, he hates to be alone.
He moves from bedfellows to mistresses to Vannozza, and with Vannozza he never feels lonely. Strangely, he also stops feeling weak. Lust may be a weakness, and a sin, but surely love cannot be?
Many men, not churchmen, vow faithfulness and respect to their lawful wives, and then betray them. Cruelty or contempt when a man has sworn otherwise is a much more grievous injury than forgoing constancy and taking a mistress. Rodrigo loves his holy mother church, as he serves her, and his vows are thus not entirely violated. The church can claim him mind and soul, even if Vannozza has his body and his heart.
Besides, who is to say that he cannot give of himself to both? St. Peter, the rock of the church, the most faithful disciple, the first pope—St. Peter had a wife, the Scriptures say. Eve was made for Adam, and they were naked together before humankind had any knowledge of sin. Even King David was punished not because he loved another man’s wife, but because he murdered to gain her.
Rodrigo merely sends Vannozza’s husband away, paying him well for the privilege of being cuckolded, and it seems that all are content with the arrangement; no one is hurt. Surely that is no great sin?
It is deceptively simple, he and Vannozza, mutually adored and adoring. She listens to him, loves him, councils him. Her mind is quick to decipher the intrigues of the Curia, although she is interested in how she can help him and, through him, herself, rather than in machinations and movements for their own sake.
Rodrigo is neither naïve nor deluded enough to believe women have no ambition, though the pathways they have for expressing it are few and far between. Though she certainly gains from his love, Vannozza cares more for caring than for aspiration, something men sometimes seem incapable of. Even with his allies, any interaction is tainted by caution and cunning, but Vannozza can love before she covets. He could almost envy her for it, until he remembers that she was born into a smaller world than he was, and it is much easier not to grasp for power when it is not remotely within your reach.
Even if they are by nature unequal, they still manage partnership, and balance. They fit together, the two of them, and that is right, and no sin.
Then, of course, it becomes more than just the two of them, and the balance shifts. For children to come from their union is obvious, inevitable, and yet it seems miraculous. Feelings change between them as Vannozza’s body changes; a lover is one thing, family is another, and a bond of blood ought to be inseparable.
Of course, it is not always so. Rodrigo only has to look at his fellow-cardinals to see that. He is far from the only one who has a child, but it is not the same. These bastard children are treated as mistakes, born out of weakness, paid for grudgingly and hidden away. Men can be fathers by blood but not by deed.
Rodrigo has been taught that blood means deed: loyalty, love, and protection. Perhaps, a man from an ancient, prosperous family can afford to discard a baseborn child, relying on the traditional ties of brothers, nephews, cousins. Rodrigo has no family left but that which he makes himself, and family is everything.
His son is baptized in the grandest of the Borgia churches; Rodrigo performs the rite personally. He traces a cross in holy water on the squalling infant’s forehead, and speaks his full name for the first time before the congregation. Like all mortals, Cesare Borgia has two fathers, on earth and in heaven, and both claim him in that church.
Still, he cannot voice that claim, at least not outside the walls of his palace. He speaks these words for strangers when he says mass—my son. But not for his own flesh and blood. Not for Cesare, and not for his second child, unborn and awaited. Children are a gift, a wonder, and he wants to speak out in praise of his. The world should know that his son is walking already on unsteady legs, and babbling distorted roots of speech. He wants to make them understand how it feels to hold Cesare’s solid weight on his lap, plump baby hands tugging playfully on the cross and chain around his neck. How it feels to lie in bed with Vannozza, his hands clasped around her swollen stomach, both of them moving gently against him, she and their child yet to be.
The Curia would be shocked to hear his glorious confession. Breaking his word is one thing, but to admit it honestly, even proudly? Unthinkable. The others may have committed similar acts, even if they haven’t taken full responsibility, but in any case, all this is to be kept silent, secret, safe.
It is no secret; they all know. He does not bother to keep Vannozza or her pregnancies hidden away. Cesare has his surname and Vannozza’s eyes, and rumors travel fast in Rome, especially if they are true.
Still, he knows he will never have their understanding, and he has had his fill of their judgement, their critical sneers. Still, though, he longs for openness, however unreasonable.
When Vannozza goes into labor for the second time, he is in consistory, watching the pope make yet another of his nephews a cardinal. These Della Roveres are as numerous as the leaves of their namesake tree, and to Rodrigo they blur together. A dour cohort, flocked in solidarity around St. Peter’s chair. There have been grumblings, of course, about nepotism. When one great Italian family gains the papacy, immediately any relative they can muster is shoved into any available position, and all the other Italian families mutter amongst themselves resentfully, waiting to do the same when their time comes. It would be laughable, if the only thing those families could agree on wasn’t hatred of outsiders.
A monk bustles into the chapel, bowing respectfully in the Holy Father's direction, before hurrying around the edges of the room to stand by Rodrigo’s side.
“Your Eminence, there’s a messenger boy outside for you. Shall I allow him in?”
Rodrigo waves a hand impatiently in assent, but when the doors are opened for the youth, he recognizes the midwife’s son and sits bolt upright in his chair.
He would have left immediately, but he cannot just bolt from a holy ceremony, especially with the pope and his horde of relatives watching him suspiciously. Doubtless they’ve guessed what time has come, and dare him to flaunt it before them. Instead, he sits, restless, alternately slouching and bouncing against the wooden back of the chair, mind churning.
He ought to be there. There had been no question with Cesare, since Vannozza had shaken him awake in the middle of the night and informed him the child was coming. But here he is, stranded by duty, and she’s across the city, bleeding for his and theirs.
Of course, he’s paid for the best of everything, made her as comfortable as possible, found chambers for the midwives weeks before. But women die in childbirth every day, whether in a hovel or a palace.
It is hours before he reaches home, and he hopes and prays for good news, to be presented proudly with his child. But there is no child, not yet, and Vannozza is still screaming in pain from her chambers. He paces up and down outside, demanding reports and answers.
“Shouldn’t the baby have come by now? Is it a bad sign that it’s been this long?”
“Sometimes they just take their time,” one of the midwives says, clearly wishing him to stop pestering her so she can return to her work, but too polite to say so.
He sends for Cesare, hoping for reassurance, but the boy is sleepy-eyed and cranky, and the sound of his mother’s cries spurs another burst of wailing. Rodrigo hands him back to his nursemaid and leans against the wall. Clenching his useless, empty hands into tight fists, he prays once more.
Vannozza’s shouts grow hoarser and softer, and the sky bleeds into night.
He is drowsing despite himself when fresh cries jolt him awake. A baby’s screams, not Cesare’s, but rawer, newer. A midwife hurries out for him, and he can tell by her relieved smile that all is as well as could be expected.
By the time he is allowed in, they’ve stripped off the bed-linens, but traces of the dark smell of blood remain in the air.
Vannozza is reclining on her side, her body limp with exhaustion, cradling a little bundle in her arms. He sits beside them on the edge of the bed, almost shy.
“Look,” she says, shifting her arms so he can see their baby’s tiny face. Her own face is wet with tears, but she is smiling up at Rodrigo, awaiting his joy.
“Isn’t he beautiful?”
His second son is still rather red-faced and squashed-looking, smaller even than Cesare had been; of course, Vannozza is absolutely right, as always.
His heart feels almost uncomfortably full, and he can barely speak, even as he smiles back at her.
“He’s perfect,” Rodrigo manages, leaning in to kiss her forehead, cupping one hand around the child’s impossibly soft cheek.
“How do you feel?”
Vannozza leans against his shoulder with a sigh, tilting her head to fit with his.
“Like I’ve been dragged headfirst through hell, but it’s worth it.”
Rodrigo forces his gaze away from his son, whose little face is now screwed up in an enormous yawn, and winds his fingers gently through her mussed, damp curls. Vannozza closes her eyes, enjoying the comfort of his touch.
“I’m glad of another boy,” he tells her. “A younger brother will be good for Cesare.”
Cesare and this new little one are barely a year apart, even closer in age than he was to his own brother. He remembers rough-housing with Pedro Luis, helping with Latin translation and getting help with sums, teaching his giggling brother how to flirt with girls. A brother should be the best friend a boy or a man has, and, God willing, his sons will be as close as their father and uncle were. God willing, Cesare will protect his younger brother as Rodrigo could not protect his own. Even so, Rodrigo has years and experience and power on his side, and will give his sons as much as he can: affection, protection, acknowledgment. This he knows with a fierce certainty, that he may compromise on many things, but he will always find a way to care for his children.
It's a weakness, certainly; that's what they teach. But how can something that makes him feel so strong and sure come from weakness?