The Family - Mario Puzo [62]
But the merriment of the night was offset by the disposition of de Córdoba, whose usually pleasant face was contorted with anger. “Cesare, I am more furious with your brother than you can know. More than anyone can know.”
Cesare put his hand on the captain’s shoulder in a gesture of friendship and reassurance. “What has my brother done now?” he asked.
The captain’s voice was hoarse with tension. “Do you understand that your brother had no hand in the fighting at Ostia?”
Cesare smiled broadly. “Yes, I assumed that, dear captain. For we won.”
“And are you aware that Juan has been taking credit, claiming victory for this conquest?” Cesare listened with a sympathetic expression as the captain fumed on. “Juan describes it everywhere he goes, saying it was he—not even we—who put the French to flight.”
“He is an empty-headed braggart,” Cesare said, “and his claims are ridiculous. There is no one in Rome who would believe him. But let us reason what can be done to correct this terrible injustice.”
Gonsalvo, still furious, would not be mollified. “In Spain, I would certainly challenge him to a duel. But here . . . ” and he stopped to catch his breath. “Did you know that arrogant fool has actually commissioned the casting of a bronze medal to be distributed in his honor?”
Cesare frowned. “A medal?” he repeated, surprised. He had heard nothing of it.
“It will bear his profile. Beneath it, in elaborately carved letters, the inscription will read, ‘Juan Borgia—Victor of Ostia.’ ”
Cesare was tempted to laugh at his brother’s absurdity, but restrained himself in order not to inflame Gonsalvo further. Then he said, “There is not a soldier in the papal army, and certainly not one of the French troops, who does not know the truth. That you, Gonsalvo de Córdoba, and only you, are the victor of Ostia.”
But the Spanish captain would not be consoled. Instead, he turned to Cesare with a look of rage. “Juan Borgia? Victor of Ostia? We will see! I should kill him. I may still . . . ” Then he turned and walked away from the balcony back into the palazzo.
Cesare remained for several moments after de Córdoba’s departure, staring into the dark night sky, and wondered how it was that he and this one they called his brother could have emerged from the same womb. It was a trick of fate, he was certain. But just before he turned back to enter the ballroom, something in the courtyard caught his attention.
Below him, standing around the central fountain and speaking in voices too low for him to hear, Cesare saw his brother Jofre talking to the Spanish captain and a younger man, tall and lean. De Córdoba was listening intently, fully engaged, while the younger man seemed to be looking around the courtyard as though searching for someone. But it was Jofre, usually so amiable and apathetic, who most startled Cesare. For on his face he wore an expression of ferociousness that Cesare had never before seen.
Cesare thought of calling out to them, until he felt a hand on his arm. Standing behind him, his finger to his lips, Don Michelotto pulled Cesare back from the ledge of the balcony to a place where they would not be seen. Hidden in the shadows, they watched for several moments until they saw the captain smile and shake young Jofre’s hand. When Jofre reached for the hand of the younger man, Michelotto noticed a large, irregularly shaped blue topaz ring, which glistened in sharp shards caught by the light of the moon. He pointed it out. “Take notice, Cesare. For that man is Vanni, an Orsini nephew.” And then, just as quickly as he had appeared, Michelotto was gone.
Inside the palazzo again, Cesare walked through the rooms trying to find Jofre, but he seemed to have disappeared. He nodded at his sister Lucrezia, who was dancing with that fool husband of hers, Giovanni; nearby, completely unaware of the chaos he was causing, Juan was dancing with his sister-in-law, Sancia. Both were laughing and having a wonderful time. But what concerned Cesare most was de Córdoba as