arms around myself.
“You don’t owe me any explanation. Save it for your father.”
“There’s no point. He’s made up his mind that I’m an ungrateful son. Nothing I say will make any difference.”
He spoke casually, as though accepting of the reality and untroubled by it, but I was not fooled. Cesare yearned for his father’s approval as a man will lust after water in the desert. The problem was that they were too alike, being possessed of fiery temperaments and indomitable wills, yet also different in crucial ways. Whereas his father was genuinely outgoing, boisterous and high-spirited, Cesare’s nature took a much more secretive and inward-looking turn. He was inclined to suspicion and the nurturing of grudges, although he did his best to conceal both tendencies. Between us, there was no room for any such pretense. I would not allow it.
“But you are ungrateful, aren’t you?” I asked. Or was I supposed to believe that he had reconciled himself to becoming a cardinal? He who had dreamed all his life of the armies he would lead and the glory he would win with his sword.
“It is not … entirely as bad as I thought it would be. I don’t actually have to do anything priestly, thank God. I’ve been working to strengthen the fortifications and improve training for the garrison. And I’ve been looking after the Spaniards, of course. They take a great deal of tending.”
I smiled despite myself. Cesare had held various church offices since childhood, none requiring anything of him but all filling his coffers through the payments of benefices and the like. However, by the time a man—even one so young—advanced to the point of becoming a cardinal, he was expected to also be a priest. The holy orders of chastity, poverty, obedience meant nothing, being routinely ignored even by the lower clergy. Cesare had every reason to know that he would remain entirely free to acquire mistresses, sire children and see to their advancement, and so on, just as his father had done. Perhaps even more important given his warlike temperament, he had the example of no less than Borgia’s great rival, Giuliano della Rovere, who when already a cardinal had personally led an army to subdue Umbria.
Yet Cesare had, at least so far, avoided committing himself entirely to the church that Il Papa expected him to lead one day. Preoccupied as he was by the prospect of war, His Holiness had let the matter slide for the moment, but I doubted that could continue indefinitely. Especially not if it fed the rumors that the Pope’s eldest son would not vow himself to the Christian god because he was a secret follower of Mithra, worshipped by Roman soldiers in hidden caves and grottos, many of which still existed.
Such rumors titillate the average Roman dinner party, but in the mouths of enemies, they can be deadly. Ultimately, Cesare would have to decide where his loyalties lay. I could only hope that when the time came, he would make an entirely rational decision unimpeded by loyalty to any god, pagan or otherwise. For truly, I think the Greeks had it right when they claimed the gods only amuse themselves with humans, wagering with our lives as children will with tokens of clay.
“That one just now, the one you were dueling with,” I said. “Who is he?”
“Don Miguel de Lopez y Herrera, Ferdinand and Isabella’s beloved nephew. They have sent him to encourage friendship between us and, of course, to spy on me.”
“What does he tell them, do you suppose?”
“As he finds my household considerably more congenial than that of Their Most Catholic Majesties, he tells them what I encourage him to say. We are Spain’s most faithful ally, but we are beset by enemies who are also theirs. It is in their interest to support us unstintingly.”
“Do you think they believe him?”
Cesare shrugged. “I can only hope that they do. Given my father’s talent for making enemies, we need all the friends we can get. This insane notion he
“You don’t owe me any explanation. Save it for your father.”
“There’s no point. He’s made up his mind that I’m an ungrateful son. Nothing I say will make any difference.”
He spoke casually, as though accepting of the reality and untroubled by it, but I was not fooled. Cesare yearned for his father’s approval as a man will lust after water in the desert. The problem was that they were too alike, being possessed of fiery temperaments and indomitable wills, yet also different in crucial ways. Whereas his father was genuinely outgoing, boisterous and high-spirited, Cesare’s nature took a much more secretive and inward-looking turn. He was inclined to suspicion and the nurturing of grudges, although he did his best to conceal both tendencies. Between us, there was no room for any such pretense. I would not allow it.
“But you are ungrateful, aren’t you?” I asked. Or was I supposed to believe that he had reconciled himself to becoming a cardinal? He who had dreamed all his life of the armies he would lead and the glory he would win with his sword.
“It is not … entirely as bad as I thought it would be. I don’t actually have to do anything priestly, thank God. I’ve been working to strengthen the fortifications and improve training for the garrison. And I’ve been looking after the Spaniards, of course. They take a great deal of tending.”
I smiled despite myself. Cesare had held various church offices since childhood, none requiring anything of him but all filling his coffers through the payments of benefices and the like. However, by the time a man—even one so young—advanced to the point of becoming a cardinal, he was expected to also be a priest. The holy orders of chastity, poverty, obedience meant nothing, being routinely ignored even by the lower clergy. Cesare had every reason to know that he would remain entirely free to acquire mistresses, sire children and see to their advancement, and so on, just as his father had done. Perhaps even more important given his warlike temperament, he had the example of no less than Borgia’s great rival, Giuliano della Rovere, who when already a cardinal had personally led an army to subdue Umbria.
Yet Cesare had, at least so far, avoided committing himself entirely to the church that Il Papa expected him to lead one day. Preoccupied as he was by the prospect of war, His Holiness had let the matter slide for the moment, but I doubted that could continue indefinitely. Especially not if it fed the rumors that the Pope’s eldest son would not vow himself to the Christian god because he was a secret follower of Mithra, worshipped by Roman soldiers in hidden caves and grottos, many of which still existed.
Such rumors titillate the average Roman dinner party, but in the mouths of enemies, they can be deadly. Ultimately, Cesare would have to decide where his loyalties lay. I could only hope that when the time came, he would make an entirely rational decision unimpeded by loyalty to any god, pagan or otherwise. For truly, I think the Greeks had it right when they claimed the gods only amuse themselves with humans, wagering with our lives as children will with tokens of clay.
“That one just now, the one you were dueling with,” I said. “Who is he?”
“Don Miguel de Lopez y Herrera, Ferdinand and Isabella’s beloved nephew. They have sent him to encourage friendship between us and, of course, to spy on me.”
“What does he tell them, do you suppose?”
“As he finds my household considerably more congenial than that of Their Most Catholic Majesties, he tells them what I encourage him to say. We are Spain’s most faithful ally, but we are beset by enemies who are also theirs. It is in their interest to support us unstintingly.”
“Do you think they believe him?”
Cesare shrugged. “I can only hope that they do. Given my father’s talent for making enemies, we need all the friends we can get. This insane notion he
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