The Family - Mario Puzo [101]
The vote was unanimous, the amount of the benefices casting away any doubt.
In a short ceremony, Pope Alexander released his son from his vows and authorized him to marry, bestowing upon him a special papal blessing.
And so it was that Cesare Borgia carefully laid down his great purple cloak and red hat in front of the consistory, bowing in acknowledgment to the cardinals of the committee and to the Holy Father. Then, with his head held high, Cesare strode from the room into the golden sunlight of Rome. He was now a man of the world, not of the church, and his new life could begin.
Afterward, Alexander felt a sense of grief, for he had built his life upon the hope that his son Cesare would eventually become Pope. But now that Juan was dead and he needed a commander he could trust to lead the papal army, he resolved to bend to the will of the Heavenly Father and accept the decision of his son.
He felt himself falling into a depression, quite uncommon for a man of his buoyant nature, and so he reasoned that he needed some pleasure to lift his spirits and offset his heavy heart. He determined to have a massage, for the pleasures of the body always helped to cheer him.
Alexander called for Duarte and informed him that he would conduct any emergency afternoon meetings in his private salon. As he did in other situations which brought him pleasure but would be frowned upon by others, he told Duarte to make known to his staff that a long afternoon massage had been prescribed as a health measure by his personal physician.
He had been in the salon for less than an hour when Duarte entered and announced, “There is someone who wishes to see you. He claims it is a matter of great importance.”
The Pope, lying prone, covered only by a light cotton towel, spoke without raising his head. “Ah, Duarte, you must have these young women relax you when they are finished with me. It drives the devil from your body, and brings new light to your soul.”
“There are other ways I find more effective,” Duarte said, laughing.
Alexander asked, “Who wishes this audience?”
“The French ambassador, Georges d’Amboise,” Duarte announced. “Do you wish me to ask him to wait until you are clothed?”
“Tell him if it is important enough, he will have to speak to me as I am, for I have no inclination to end this session more quickly than I had planned,” Alexander said. “After all, Duarte, even a Pope must have a moment to honor the temple of his body. For is it not a creation of the Lord?”
Duarte said, “Theology is not my strength, Worthiness. But I will send him in. For the French are seldom horrified by pleasures of the flesh.”
And so it was, lying unclothed on a high table, with two attractive young girls massaging Alexander’s back and rubbing his muscular legs, that the French ambassador, Georges d’Amboise, found the Pope. He was ushered into the salon by an amused Duarte, who quickly took leave of them.
Though cynical and highly sophisticated, Georges d’Amboise was taken aback at this sight. But his face, set in practiced diplomacy, revealed nothing.
The Pope said, “It’s safe to speak, Ambassador. These girls pay no attention.”
But d’Amboise refused. He told Alexander, “The king’s instructions are that no one but Your Holiness must hear this.”
Pope Alexander impatiently waved the girls away, slid off the table, and stood up. The ambassador attempted to avert his eyes.
“D’Amboise, you French make such a thing of secrecy, yet all rumors fly on the wind, and nothing escapes us. Your court can keep nothing to itself, nor can ours. But now we are alone. You may speak.”
Georges d’Amboise found it difficult to approach a matter of such great importance while the Pope stood naked before him, and in his attempt to compose himself he began to cough and sputter.
Alexander looked down at himself and smiled. “And the French are said to be so free . . . ” he said, with some