The Family - Mario Puzo [73]
By noon, divers searched the riverbed from bank to bank with dragging nets and huge grappling hooks. But it was three o’clock before one of the hooks thrown by a local fisherman caught on something solid, and a bloated body floated to the surface, face up, with a blue velvet cloak swirling around in the current.
He still wore his boots and spurs. His gloves were tucked in his belt, and his purse contained thirty ducats, so the motive had not been to rob him. But once he was taken from the water and examined, it was found that he had nine deep stab wounds in his body, and that his throat had been slashed.
Duarte Brandao came to identify the body. There was no question. It was the Pope’s son, Juan Borgia.
Juan’s body was taken by boat at once to the Castel Sant’ Angelo. And on seeing the corpse of his favorite son Alexander fell to his knees, distraught and distracted by grief. He sobbed and sobbed, so that his cries to his God could be heard throughout the Vatican.
When Alexander was able to collect himself, he ordered the funeral to be held that very evening. Juan’s body was prepared and laid out in state, dressed in the rich brocade uniform of the captain general of the Holy Roman Catholic Church.
At six o’clock that evening, Juan, looking handsome and as though asleep, was placed on a magnificent bier and carried by the noblemen of his household across the bridge while the Pope stood alone, watching from the tower of Castel Sant’ Angelo.
The procession was led by 120 torch and shield bearers, followed by hundreds of church chamberlains and ecclesiastics, weeping and in great disorder.
That night, accompanied by a thousand mourners, all carrying torches, borne between lines of Spanish troopers, their unsheathed swords held before them, the procession reached the Church of Santa Maria del Popolo, where Juan was laid to rest in the chapel his mother, Vanozza, had prepared as her own tomb.
Alexander was still in the throes of great grief when, immediately after the funeral, he called for his son Cesare to come to his chambers.
Anxious to be of help to his father, Cesare went at once.
Entering the Pope’s private study, he found Alexander sitting at his desk, his face pale, his eyes rimmed red from weeping. Cesare had only seen him like this once before—when he was a child and Juan’s life was in danger. He wondered in that moment whether prayer could ever change destiny, but rather just postpone the inescapable.
When Alexander saw this son, in the darkness of his dimly lit room, he approached Cesare, positioning his mountainous body just inches away. He was beside himself with grief and rage. He had always known that Cesare had no love for his brother; he understood that Juan had taken the life that Cesare wanted for himself. He’d heard that they had quarreled bitterly two nights before at Vanozza’s, the night Juan disappeared. Now he wanted the truth from Cesare. And he spoke in a harsh, commanding tone. “Swear to me that you did not kill your brother. Swear on your immortal soul. And know if you keep the truth from me, you will burn in hell forever.”
The shock of his father’s accusation almost took his breath away. In truth, he was not sorry his brother was dead. But it was also the truth that he himself did not kill Juan. And yet he could not blame his father for suspecting him.
Cesare moved even closer, locking his eyes with his father’s gaze. He put his hand to his chest, and addressed Alexander with sincerity. “Father, I did not kill my brother. I swear to it. And if I am not speaking the truth, I shall willingly burn in hell forever.” He saw the confusion in the face of the Pope, and so he repeated the words. “I did not kill Juan.”
It was the Pope who looked away first. He sat again then, seemed to collapse into his large leather chair, his hand over his eyes. When he spoke his voice was soft and sad. “Thank you. Thank you, my son,” he said. “As you can see I am desolate over the loss of my boy. And I am enormously relieved by what you have said. For I must tell