On the next-to-last day of June-Saint Peter’s day, commemorating the Church’s first pope-Alexander invited all of us, including his little namesake Rodrigo, to visit him in his apartments.
It was an unusually warm day, and the sky had filled with fast-sailing black clouds that swiftly blotted out all trace of blue. The wind began to gust. As we-Lucrezia, Alfonso, Jofre and I-walked with our attendants from the palazzo toward the Vatican, a sudden cool rush of air caused the skin on my arms and neck to prick; with it came a loud clap of thunder.
Little Rodrigo-then eight months old, of good size and strength-wailed in terror at the sound, and struggled so vigorously in his nurse’s arms that Alfonso took him. We hurried our pace, but did not manage to escape the downpour; a cold, sharp rain, complete with stinging hailstones, began to pelt us as we hastened up the Vatican steps. Alfonso tucked the baby’s head beneath his arms and crouched, protecting his son as best he could.
Wet and dishevelled, we passed the guards and made it through the great doors into the shelter of the entrance hall. As Alfonso held his whimpering child, Lucrezia and I both fussed over the baby, using our sleeves and hems of our gowns to dry him.
As we stood near the entrance, a loud
Alfonso and I looked at each other in alarm, remembering the horrors we had witnessed in Naples, and simultaneously whispered: ‘Cannon.’
For an instant, I entertained the wild notion that the French were attacking the city; but that was madness. We would have had warning; there would have been reports of their army marching.
Then, from deeper inside the building, we heard the frenzied shouts of men. I could not make out their words, but their hysteria was clear enough.
Lucrezia turned towards the sound; her eyes widened suddenly. ‘Father!’ she screamed, then picked up her skirts and ran.
I followed, as did Jofre and Alfonso, who first handed his child to the nurse. We ran up the stairs full tilt-the men quickly passing us, as they were unencumbered by long gowns.
On the corridor leading to the Borgia apartments, we were greeted by a dark haze that stung eyes and lungs; as I followed behind Alfonso and Jofre, I, too, stopped in horrified amazement at the archway that led into the Hall of the Faith, where His Holiness supposedly sat on his throne, expecting us.
The place where the throne had rested was now a great dust-clouded pile of wooden beams, shattered stone, and masonry: the ceiling above had collapsed, bringing down with it the carpeting and furniture housed on the floor above.
The carpeting and furniture I recognized, for I had seen them many a night in Cesare’s chamber. I felt a pang of wicked hope: if both Cesare and the Pope were dead, my fears for my family and Naples could be laid to rest with them.
‘Holy Father!’ ‘Your Holiness!’ The Pope’s two attendants, the chamberlain Gasparre and the Bishop of Cadua, cried out desperately for him as they bent over the rubble and tried to peer beneath it for signs of life. It had been their shouts we had heard-and now Lucrezia and Jofre added their voices as well.
‘Father! Father, speak to us! Are you injured?’
No sound came from the daunting heap. Alfonso went in search of help, and soon returned with half-a-dozen workmen bearing shovels. I held Lucrezia as she stared aghast at the pile, certain that her father was dead; I, too, was certain of the same, and struggled between guilt and elation.
It soon became clear that Cesare had not been in his apartment, for there was no sign of him. But no fewer than three floors had collapsed upon the pontiff. The amount of rubble was formidable; we stood for the space of an hour while the men worked vigorously under Alfonso’s direction.
At last, Jofre, who had been growing increasingly distraught, could no longer contain himself. ‘He is dead!’ he cried out. ‘There can be no hope! Father is dead!’
The chamberlain, Gasparre, also a man of emotion, took up the phrase as he wrung his hands in despair. ‘The Holy Father is dead! The Pope is dead!’
‘Quiet!’ Alfonso commanded, with a harshness I had never before seen in him. ‘Quiet, both of you, or you will plunge all of Rome into chaos!’
Indeed, beneath us we could hear the sound of footfall as the papal guards rushed to surround the entrance to the Vatican; we could also hear the voices of servants and cardinals as they echoed the cry.
‘The Pope is dead!’ ‘His Holiness is dead!’
‘Come,’ I coaxed Jofre, luring him away from the rubble to my side. ‘Jofre, Lucrezia, you must be strong now and not add to each other’s anguish.’
‘That is true,’ Jofre said, with a feeble attempt at courage; he took his sister’s hand. ‘We must trust in God and the workers now.’
The three of us linked arms and forced ourselves to wait calmly for the outcome, despite the frenzied sounds on the floor beneath us.
From time to time, the men would cease their digging, and call out to the Pope: no response ever came. He had certainly expired, I assured myself. In my own mind, I was already back in Squillace.
After an hour, they managed to work through the masonry deeply enough to discover an edge of Alexander’s golden mantle.
‘Holy Father! Your Holiness!’
Still no sound.
But God was merely playing a trick on us all. In the end, after they pulled away timbers and gilded tapestries, they discovered Alexander-covered in dust, terrified into muteness, sitting staff-straight upon his throne, his huge hands tightly gripping the carved armrests.
The cuts and bruises were so small, we could not even see them then.
Gasparre led him to his bed while Lucrezia summoned the doctor. Alexander was bled and developed a slight fever; he would see no one save his daughter and Cesare.
An investigation commenced. It was at first speculated that a rebellious noble had launched a cannonball-but in fact, a lightning strike, combined with a fierce gale, brought the roof down. It was mere chance that Cesare had left his chambers only moments before.
This was a divine warning, many whispered, that the Borgias should repent of their sins, lest God bring about their downfall. Savonarola had spoken from beyond the grave.
But for Cesare, it was a warning that he should commence sinning with a vengeance, to secure his place in history while his father still breathed.
Summer 1500
XXXII
Given his strong constitution, Alexander recovered quite swiftly. The thunderbolt from God gave His Holiness a sense of mortality and a renewed appreciation of life; he began to spend less time with Cesare contemplating strategies for conquest and more time in the company of his family-which consisted of the swiftly-growing baby Rodrigo, Lucrezia, Alfonso, Jofre, and me. Once more, we supped nightly at the Pope’s table, where he discussed domestic matters instead of politics. A chasm was growing between Cesare and Alexander in terms of loyalty; I only hoped that the Pope was powerful enough to emerge the victor.
