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Authors: Sara Poole
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happy? Content? His was a mercurial nature ruled by passion and ambition. Happiness did not enter into it. Surely his father, who was not far different, knew that?
“He is loyal to you,” I said, because in the end wasn’t that all that mattered, at least to Borgia?
Il Papa passed a hand over his jowls wearily. An observer might have been forgiven for thinking that he was an old man resigned to the foibles of the young. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
“Is he? He rails against the life I have given him. Claims he’ll go off and become a mercenario for whoever will hire him. Says he’ll make his living with his sword before he’ll put on red skirts.”
“He is young yet—” Although to be truthful, I had difficulty imagining Cesare in the vestments of a cardinal of Holy Mother Church. Aside from the very few old men still clinging to their missives, the princes of the church were cunning, ambitious schemers best suited to wield power from behind their expansive desks. Cesare, on the other hand, was made for the field of battle. Anyone who had been in his presence long enough to say a single paternoster ought to have known that.
“He is my son! He will damn well do as I tell him.”
My father had wanted me to marry and give him grandchildren but he had the good sense to recognize that I was my own self, for better or worse, and not a mere extension of his will. Perhaps it was because he had afforded me such regard in life that I was so determined to honor him in death.
“Then what difference does it make to you how he feels about it?” I asked.
Borgia took another swallow of his wine. He set the goblet down and appeared to study it for a moment before looking at me. Without warning, he said, “Will he betray me? Tell me that, poisoner. The son of mine you take into your bed, does he whisper to you of patricide?”
I was aghast, plain and simple. That he should entertain the notion of betrayal at the hands of his eldest son was bad enough but that he should consider me as a coconspirator was unthinkable in all its ramifications, not in the least for my own survival. An only child of a doting father, I claim little understanding of the inner workings of families, but even I knew that there could be only one possible answer.
“Did you sleep at all last night?” I was bidding for time, of course, time for my frantic mind to frame the necessary response in a way that would be believable. But in some flickering corner of my thoughts, I was also genuinely concerned for him, God help me.
“Is Giulia prattling?” he countered, scowling.
“She cares for you. We all do. If you go around talking like that, people will say your wits have addled.”
Harsh words to hurl at a pope, but they seemed to soothe Borgia. He had claimed in the past to like my audacity although I always doubted that. I think rather that he ever weighed me in the balance, looking for the moment when I would become more trouble than I was worth. But just then I still had use, not only to preserve his life but also as a means of communicating with his wayward son.
Relenting slightly, he said, “I know I can depend on Cesare when all is said and done. Whatever else he is, he is no cuckoo, slipped falsely into my nest. Were he, I would be forced to expel him even though he fall to earth and be crushed, which, I am assured, he most certainly would.”
“How fortunate then,” I said with a perfectly straight face, “that he is an eaglet, the true son of his father.”
Borgia chuckled; he was as mercurial as his son in his own way, his moods ever ready to be shifted. But I never made the mistake of thinking him capricious. Anyone who did think so quickly had reason to regret it.
“You worry needlessly,” I said. “Would you be happier if Cesare was a milksop to meekly accept whatever you decree for him? He has strength and spirit. Be glad of both but know that in the end, he will always do as you wish.”
Borgia
“He is loyal to you,” I said, because in the end wasn’t that all that mattered, at least to Borgia?
Il Papa passed a hand over his jowls wearily. An observer might have been forgiven for thinking that he was an old man resigned to the foibles of the young. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
“Is he? He rails against the life I have given him. Claims he’ll go off and become a mercenario for whoever will hire him. Says he’ll make his living with his sword before he’ll put on red skirts.”
“He is young yet—” Although to be truthful, I had difficulty imagining Cesare in the vestments of a cardinal of Holy Mother Church. Aside from the very few old men still clinging to their missives, the princes of the church were cunning, ambitious schemers best suited to wield power from behind their expansive desks. Cesare, on the other hand, was made for the field of battle. Anyone who had been in his presence long enough to say a single paternoster ought to have known that.
“He is my son! He will damn well do as I tell him.”
My father had wanted me to marry and give him grandchildren but he had the good sense to recognize that I was my own self, for better or worse, and not a mere extension of his will. Perhaps it was because he had afforded me such regard in life that I was so determined to honor him in death.
“Then what difference does it make to you how he feels about it?” I asked.
Borgia took another swallow of his wine. He set the goblet down and appeared to study it for a moment before looking at me. Without warning, he said, “Will he betray me? Tell me that, poisoner. The son of mine you take into your bed, does he whisper to you of patricide?”
I was aghast, plain and simple. That he should entertain the notion of betrayal at the hands of his eldest son was bad enough but that he should consider me as a coconspirator was unthinkable in all its ramifications, not in the least for my own survival. An only child of a doting father, I claim little understanding of the inner workings of families, but even I knew that there could be only one possible answer.
“Did you sleep at all last night?” I was bidding for time, of course, time for my frantic mind to frame the necessary response in a way that would be believable. But in some flickering corner of my thoughts, I was also genuinely concerned for him, God help me.
“Is Giulia prattling?” he countered, scowling.
“She cares for you. We all do. If you go around talking like that, people will say your wits have addled.”
Harsh words to hurl at a pope, but they seemed to soothe Borgia. He had claimed in the past to like my audacity although I always doubted that. I think rather that he ever weighed me in the balance, looking for the moment when I would become more trouble than I was worth. But just then I still had use, not only to preserve his life but also as a means of communicating with his wayward son.
Relenting slightly, he said, “I know I can depend on Cesare when all is said and done. Whatever else he is, he is no cuckoo, slipped falsely into my nest. Were he, I would be forced to expel him even though he fall to earth and be crushed, which, I am assured, he most certainly would.”
“How fortunate then,” I said with a perfectly straight face, “that he is an eaglet, the true son of his father.”
Borgia chuckled; he was as mercurial as his son in his own way, his moods ever ready to be shifted. But I never made the mistake of thinking him capricious. Anyone who did think so quickly had reason to regret it.
“You worry needlessly,” I said. “Would you be happier if Cesare was a milksop to meekly accept whatever you decree for him? He has strength and spirit. Be glad of both but know that in the end, he will always do as you wish.”
Borgia
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