The Lustful Youth of Rodrigo Borgia

Borgias"

Prologue

1474

I do not appear to be a man of God. My attire - hunting boots, a tunic and heavy belt - does not announce my position within the church and on horseback I resemble a warrior still in his prime. Neither does my face carry the saintly countenance of my uncle, Pope Callixtus III. Indeed, nothing about me suggests suffering, severity, or simplicity; instead my appearance conveys good health, masculine strength, and a desire for pleasure. In different dress, my tall, muscular, exuberant self would be easily recognized in Rome, but today, disguised as a common horseman, I am able to flee, undisturbed, from the city.

I need solitude. To feel the wind in my face, to breathe in the cool briny air, to think, and, above all, to free my mind of her grief-stricken face.

Escorted by only a few trusted men, I gallop along the shore near Ostia. Wet sand splatters up onto my cheeks and hair as my steed hurls down the beach, drunken by this unexpected freedom, allowed and encouraged as I defer to the movements of the beast’s sweaty flanks. Both horse and rider left breathless with each stride.

And yet, her face torments my thoughts - how I wish to smother it and at the same time draw it near!

I yearned to kiss away her tears and banish the pain that burdened her by encircling my arms around that sweet body, to love her with passion so as I might see her laugh again. However, I drew not near. From a distance, I followed the funeral procession without being seen. She and her mother clung to one another - two, disheartened figures dressed in black behind the coffin - and she appeared as even more beautiful and more desirable. In the moment of greatest despair, when the body of her beloved father was lowered into the grave, light and warmth radiated from her being.

We might not have ever met, I think with anguish, and thus I would not be here now. Destiny plays with people, moving them like pawns on a chessboard, then it abandons them to interpret the game on their own.

It was with a light heart that I struck up with her, as was my way with all the others. She seemed no different, just another. Yet I have been amazed to find a special creature, an uncommon woman. I can converse with her as I do with Guillaume or other friends. She refrains from silliness, is skillful in listening, laughs at the appropriate moment, and cries with feeling. She tastes of freshly baked bread and, together with the pepper of her caress, I lose all powers of reason in her presence.

I rein in my mount, and we, my horse and I, recover from the exertion. The stallion paces through the cool seawater that bathes its shanks; I wipe the sweat that beads my brow.

These are the waves that carried me to Italy, according to the course set for me by the Lord. They have brought me good fortune - even if once they nearly took my life - and remain a tangible, yet ineffable part of my existence.

Two days ago, Guillaume asked me, Rodrigo, how long has it been since you’ve stopped to look at the sky? He’s right. How long has it been since I’ve turned toward the heavens, toward the Universe? Worries, ambition, the desire to possess always more, to experience every type of pleasure, these have been my concerns. Guillaume has a blind nephew who asks him time and again, What is the sky like? What is the sea like? My friend, who wears his cardinal’s hat with pride, tells me, Rodrigo, you and I are rich, and not only for the ducats in our purse, but we are rich because we can enjoy. With our eyes, with our hands, and with our bodies.

The lapping of the waves accompanies my thoughts which roll in one after another like the gentle swells that wash over the hooves of my horse, who is intent on looking toward the low vegetation that grows free along the coast. I can see its nostrils expand to inhale the scents carried on the wind. Unexpectedly I feel the beast quiver through the saddle when, like an apparition, a group of wild boar emerge from the salty scrub that borders the beach. We watch them trot into the open, sense their fear, their surprise: men do not belong in that solitary land. A sow, followed by four hearty young. Alarmed by our presence, they invert their direction and run back into the woodlands, grunting and taking with them their strong, wild odor. I remain still, watching their retreat, holding the horse firm as it stamps in the shallow water.

Among my escorts I see a raised eyebrow, a tilted head. They know I love to hunt, and I am wont to capture my prey. Hunting is not our purpose here, I announce, leaving no room for ambiguity as I dismount. The mother and her young were a sign. I dare not pierce those wild beasts.

I sit down on a boulder sunken in the damp sand while a seagull shrieks overhead.

Who is Rodrigo Borgia? I ask myself. A man of faith or an opportunistic scoundrel who only desires power and is a slave of his own impulses? Or perhaps a man in love who is weakened by his doubts? An answer eludes me at this time, but I pray to find a key hidden somewhere in the past decades, starting from that day when the course of my life was diverted.

I

1448

The nipple between my lips tasted of sour milk, like that of my wet nurse, Catalina, who fed me until I was two years old - at least that is my memory - instead, it belonged to Juana. Young, passionate, and reckless, she was eighteen and still nursing her second child. Don’t worry, I won’t get pregnant, she said as she opened her blouse to me. I cupped her breasts in my hands and suckled, first one then the other. The scent of hay made my head spin and, at the same time, it excited me. It poked at my bare legs as I, with my breeches down, rubbed myself over her in the hayloft not far from my family’s house.

For several weeks the hayloft and granary became our magical bed. Juana’s elderly husband was a bailiff who worked for my family and his vigor had begun to fail. She was famished for sex and lacked modesty; I was unable to reason in her presence. Indeed, at seventeen, one’s reason is anything but firm while the body overflows with energy and desire.

By then, I had already been visiting the whorehouses of Valencia for several years and courted honest, and not so honest women who contributed to my education. When I was at home, the only distraction, aside from hunting, was Juana. All the other females in the town were either too ugly to look at or kept under lock and key.

Rodrigo! I know you’re in there! my mother shouted from the courtyard. I gestured to Juana not to move. Dama Isabel would not clamber up the steep rungs of the ladder to flush me out, but I could not pretend I didn’t hear.

Rodrigo, come down now or I’ll send Fernando with his pitchfork!

Fernando was our hired hand, and his strong arms could be very convincing. I was sure he was standing there with my mother, eager to use them.

"Did she have to come now?" Juana whispered, caressing my member.

I’ll find out what she wants. Don’t move… I murmured as I stood up. One last run of my hand lasciviously between her legs and I pulled up my hose, trying to hide my excitement as best I could.

I peered over the edge of the loft and faked a yawn. "Pardon me, Señora Madre, I was sleeping," I lied, holding one hand up to my eyes to shield them from the blazing summer sun.

Her reproachful expression made it clear she didn’t believe me, but a good son knows how to obtain his mother’s forgiveness. I leapt down the ladder, knelt before her skirt, and clasped her hand then covered it with kisses. She accepted my affection for a moment, then pulled away abruptly. She turned her shoulders and gestured for me to follow.

I’ve had them looking for you everywhere, she hissed, chomping on her anger between her teeth. Would it have been so difficult to let them find you without my having to come out here? Is it possible that you are always…

Sleepy. I’m always sleepy, I finished her sentence for her. My studies require so much of my energy, Mother. You can’t imagine how difficult it is to read legal treatises… I studied until the sun came up!

An unbelieving chuckle escaped from Fernando, which earned him a sharp glare from my mother.

Rodrigo, I have not come out into the sun for you to make a fool of me, she replied harshly. A courier has brought a letter from your Uncle Alonso. He wants you in Rome, with Pedro Luis. We shall return to Valencia immediately to make arrangements for your journey. The two of you will leave as soon as possible.

My heart pounded wildly in my chest.

Uncle Alonso was a very powerful cardinal, and his summons could be the perfect opportunity. However, it meant I’d miss the agricultural fair in August when people, parties, corride, and whores filled the streets of Xàtiva. Do we have to leave right away?

My mother froze midway across the courtyard. Her image is still clear in my mind. Tall and straight like a palm, enveloped in a black dress despite the ferocious July heat. A scorching gust lifted clouds of dirt that clung to her skirts. She swatted at the cloth in an attempt to clean it, her shockingly white hands full of rings, fluttering and sparkling in the sun.

Austere, devout, and determined - doubly Borgia because it was also her family name before her marriage - she instilled in me more respect than love. She rarely embraced me or let herself demonstrate affection, but her all-seeing eyes followed every step of my life as well as those of my four sisters and her first-born, Pedro Luis. She wanted the best for us and was ready to assure it through any means. Her way of loving us was concrete.

I was ten years old when my father, Jofré de Borja y Doms, died. My mother stifled her pain and took us to Valencia where she was sure to find quality tutors for us. Every day she inquired about our progress and also managed with prudence her own properties as well as those left to her by our father: a house, horses, land. She was conservative with expenditures but raised us to appreciate splendor and possess self-conviction, teaching us that one can live on