Previously on The Borgias...
The French king has been struck with the Neapolitan disease.
As we had hoped.
King Charles cannot remain in Naples forever.
The House of Borgia is doomed.
The arms of the House of Sforza will remain where they belong.
We shall subdue the arrogance of the Sforzas,
force them back into the arms of Rome.
Lucrezia.
My God! A peasant to a Pope's daughter?
Let him be! Let him be!
He has a terror of food, since the event.
See him safe to the monastery in Perugia.
The brothers will arrange his passage to Rome.
This child has a father.
A stable hand.
Who has come to Rome.
- You loved him? - I still do.
Do you normally work at night?
I must practise my art in secret, Your Holiness.
You are more Eve than Adam.
We may have a commission for you.
These celebrations,
does anyone have any idea of the cost?
Can one put a price on joy?
No, Holy Father. It is priceless.
Let Rome be full of joy!
I would gladly die for you both.
So go now, my love. I would have you live.
And Lucrezia? Would you marry her again?
In time.
I mean you no harm, kind sir, whoever you may be.
Suicide.
A sin even the Pope can't forgive.
Dead men can't confess.
Oh, beautiful.
Oh, you like that one for you?
- Cesare! - Good morning, sis.
Why are you here?
Let me take you back home.
I would have a look through the market.
No, it's getting hot.
- What's wrong? - Nothing.
You can't hide things from me, brother.
I'll take you through the square.
- Cut him down! - It's a boy!
Hurry up!
Give me a hand! Quickly!
I need a sharper blade.
No! No!
Lucrezia!
No!
- Don't look. - Then pluck my eyes out.
You think it's a spectacle?
- Paolo! - You like to stare at tears?
Go away!
It's all my fault. It's all my fault.
It's all my fault.
It was a suicide.
I am still to blame.
I took his love.
I took his kindness.
I took his child.
And the pity was he loved a Borgia.
Please. Don't.
Please, my love, don't blame yourself. He left a note.
It was a suicide. He left a note.
"To my Lucrezia, I bid farewell."
Make way there. Step aside.
Take care of the body.
Water! I need warm water! And a physician!
- Yes, Your Eminence. - I want to die.
- No. - I want to die, brother.
- Will you not talk like that, please? - I want to die.
You have a child to care for.
Then we must both die.
Like Paolo.
I'll see to the baby.
You try to sleep.
Can't you quieten him?
The child is hungry, Your Eminence.
Well, feed him then.
He has yet only fed at his mother's breast.
You cannot disturb her. Find a way.
Your Eminence.
Get in there. Look after her.
St Peter's pence. St Peter's pence.
St Peter's pence.
We grant to all who contribute to St Peter's pence
a plenary indulgence from the pain and suffering of purgatory.
Not willing to pay for eternal salvation, brother?
Cheap at the price, surely?
So is talk, brother. And dangerous, too.
I have even heard tell of a cardinal
who has changed his robes from red to brown.
From where do you come?
I was recently the guest of the good sisters of St Agnes,
whose greetings I bring you.
And where do we travel to is the more important question, is it not?
Important questions all.
Break bread with me, brother, and we may discuss them further.
Amen.
Leave us.
Your Eminence.
I've had tragic news, Father.
We had hoped to have banished tragedy.
It's the father of your daughter's child.
There is a father?
Of course.
He has been found dead.
- Where? In Pesaro? - No, here in Rome.
He dared to come to Rome?
He tried to see her, and his infant son.
And we would hope that he failed.
Of course.
And he...
He took his own life.
And our daughter knows of this?
Yes.
Stupid boy. To come to Rome.
So you are concerned about Lucrezia.
And the child.
Why the child?
She won't allow him near her.
Lucrezia.
Lucrezia!
You have lost someone we didn't know.
Didn't know of.
Had we known of his presence here in Rome,
we would have sent him home.
But the act of suicide puts the sinner beyond the grace of God.
Beyond our pity.
And beyond your affections, surely.
Your child is crying for you.
Come on, give me your hand. Give me your hand.
Give me your hand and raise yourself up.
You must, you must return to your child.
Come along, come.
Tell us what we can do to make things right.
Ask Juan.
Your Holiness.
What's this?
Is it fever?
It will follow, as night follows day.
Cesare, we must bring her to her senses.
She blames herself.
Why, pray, would she do that?
For entertaining his hopes.
Well, how could she have done that?
I arranged a meeting at my mother's house.
Are you insane?
You married her to a brute! She found solace with a stable boy.
He came to Rome!
He died in Rome.
Did Juan have a hand in this?
I will not have this family torn apart.
And I will see that child survive.
Your friend is no Dominican.
No.
He is of the Capuchin order.
And he always eats with you?
Since my wine was poisoned.
You're safe here.
So it seems.
I would join your order.
And if we refuse you?
Why then, I shall have to join the Capuchins.
But their rule is not as strict.
Their vows not as binding.
Friar Savonarola is a Dominican, after all.
He is.
And your order shares his abhorrence of the Borgia Pope.
We would restore the Church, Cardinal.
Brother...
Call me Brother Giuliano,
since we share the same aims.
Brother Giuliano. But do we share the same methods?
That is what I would discuss with you.
You of all people should understand, Rodrigo,
the need to see one's child.
It was beyond foolish.
But you can forgive her, surely?
The question is, can she forgive herself?
You met this boy?
- Barely. - He allowed our mother's house
to play brothel for him.
I know little of brothels, brother.
Juan...
Did you meet him?
I saw her meet a peasant at the fountain of St Agatha.
If you had a hand in his death, now is the time to confess it to us.
Then I confess.
To what?
That I didn't.
Rodrigo!
You would see your daughter married again?
Perhaps.
Then have that peasant buried in a pauper's grave, unshriven.
And be thankful he didn't bring more shame on your perfect family.
Be careful, be very careful.
Or you might find yourself wearing peasant shoes.
No, no, no.
What you propose is unthinkable.
I have thought about it long and hard.
Each and every cardinal is in his pay.
We have unleashed a wolf upon this world,
and if we do not act, he will consume us all.
And how would you achieve this end?
I have no idea.
But my soul has crossed that Rubicon.
If there are those within your order who would cross it with me,
we can find a way.
Our brother Friar, Savonarola, in Florence,
prophesies the end of days,
but not the murder of the Pope of Rome.
Do you dare broach it with him?
If I did, and had his approval, would I have yours?
You would have mine, and all within this priory.
You must talk to me, my love.
You are the light of my life,
the light of this family's life.
If that light goes...
I would ask just one thing of you, Father.
Anything.
Permit my Paolo a Christian burial.
He is a suicide. It is impossible.
This note was pinned to his sleeve.
Yes. A suicide note.
But he could not read or write, Father!
My Paolo could not even pen his own name.
So it was murder.
Where is the murderer?
Too close for comfort.
I will not have this family at war with itself.
And I would have my Paolo saved from the fires of hell.
And your infant must
feed.
His fever grows.
The father of Giovanni took
his own life.
So it seems.
And this poor child must feed.
So his father must have what suicides are forbidden.
A Christian burial.
So we admit it was no suicide.
No, Rome is a dangerous place.
Far too dangerous.
Will you perform the rite?
Gladly.
Lucrezia, we ask that you give this child your breast
so its father may be buried with the Church's blessing.
You have saved my Paolo from the fires of hell, Father.
And I love you for it.
Holy Father.
Have you come to confess?
That I am sorry, and...
For what?
For my sister.
And for her loss.
You
will choose a bride
in your ancestral homeland, Spain.
You will travel there
and you will become the Borgia
I always hoped you would be.
Say goodbye to your father, my love.
You must cry for me, for I have no more tears.
Amen.
Go ahead.
Forward! Forward!
Keep your place.
I admire your artistry.
But since King Ferrante died, I find time weighs heavily.
Few have needs of my talents.
Oh, I would use them.
But as an informant, not as a taxidermist.
I need word on his troop's movements
and on your king's intentions.
- The king is ill. - How ill?
Too ill to remain in Naples.
Then I will bide my time and wait for your word.
He has visitors from the Romagna.
Of any renown?
Sforzas.
Giovanni and Caterina.
I will visit you again.
And if the King decides to ride north,
your armies would ride with his?
Yes, in return for a certain consideration.
And this consideration?
His cannon.
You would have him leave his cannon to the Sforza armies?
Not every piece.
But enough to defend our castle at Forlì,
to replicate the great fortresses of France.
Giovanni Sforza.
And my cousin, Caterina Sforza, Your Majesty.
You have many cousins, I have been told.
Are they all impotent, like you?
That is a vile Borgia slander, perpetrated by the Pope himself.
Which is why you are here, of course.
You would have a taste of vengeance.
The Italian appetite for vengeance astounds even us, Lord Sforza.
The Italian appetite for vengeance may be boundless, Majesty,
but happily for you,
the Spanish appetite for war is not.
What say you to Donna,
to Donna Gabriella, my love?
I say "yes" to Donna Gabriella!
And to the Marquesa? To Marquesa Maria?
- No! - Isobella?
- No! - Juana?
No!
Who is your favourite?
Maria Enrique de Luna.
Forgive me, brother.
Had I realised...
You're keeping late hours, sis.
Not of my choosing, brother.
Perhaps you could spare a thought for your nephew
trying to sleep downstairs?
Forgive me, sis.
- But... - Bernadetta.
Bernadetta here was helping me choose a wife.
What do you think of our favourite,
Maria Enrique de Luna?
She's pretty.
And clearly no peasant.
She is royalty, sis.
Cousin to Queen Isabella.
So. You must marry her then.
I have your permission?
You need it?
I need your blessing.
I know you have been sad of late.
You would have to have my forgiveness first.
Forgiveness for what?
For being yourself.
You should get back to the task at hand, brother,
and I to my lonely bed.
Good night.
Sleep well.
♪ I took a bow and aimed it low
♪ And caught you on the chin-chin-chin
♪ My mother said, Now go to bed
♪ I'll have to lock you in, in, in ♪
Help! Help!
- Get her off me. - My God!
For the love of God, man, get her off me!
My Lord?
Medics, now!
Yes, Your Eminence.
From the Judas cradle to the Judas chair.
He did not enjoy the cradle, did he?
No, My Liege.
I would say he did not.
Maybe the chair will suit him better.
Angle his head, if you will.
So he can gaze at his saviour.
Yes, Your Majesty.
He is about to betray him, after all.
We have the sense of an ending, at least.
Prepare to leave this abattoir tomorrow.
We leave for Rome.
See you when I come back next.
You have news for me?
He has ordered the evacuation of Naples.
And the king will travel with his own troops, yes?
And Sforza arms.
It will take days to gather such an army. Three at least.
So I must hurry.
This is for your retirement...
Thank you.
And for your silence.
I remember so very little of Spain, Mother.
And if we had stayed, how different things could have been.
You have regrets?
Regrets are part of life.
Regret is part of Rome.
Let me serve you, brother.
You have no regrets, do you, dear Juan?
No burning ones, no.
Good.
Then perhaps I shall drop in on you unexpectedly
one day soon in Spain.
What is it with you children tonight?
May I make a speech, Mother?
You may.
We were outsiders when we came here.
Spaniards, Catalans.
And we endured the insults,
the taunts of Murano, the...
Bile?
The poison?
The insidious invective of the Roman nobility.
And you, dear Mother, endured it most of all.
But if we managed to triumph, and triumph we did,
we did because of the warmth
that we discovered around this table.
The warmth of the Spanish sun,
of our Catalan blood,
that you recreated in your hearth,
in your home, at this table.
The huge, unstoppable beating heart of la madre.
Mother.
Let us drink then, to...
To family.
To family!
God speed, My Lord.
Safe journey to you, My Lord!
Farewell, General Borgia.
May you prosper, My Lord.
God be with you!
Farewell, My Lord!
A sad day to lose a brother, is it not, Cesare?
Indeed.
I wonder that the sun even dares to shine.
Anyone who rides that hard has news.
Bad news as always, Your Eminence.
The King is on the move.
With vengeance in his heart. He feels he was deceived.
So he was. A most beautiful deception.
He says he will use his cannon to reduce our walls to dust.
He says he will rape Rome as Rome raped the Sabine women,
that he'll strip her of her treasures to make up for his losses.
How long to move an army of that size from Naples to Rome?
A week. Ten days at most.
We must make haste then.
You have a plan?
We fight fire with fire.
You will supervise with the greatest speed and the utmost secrecy,
the construction of one hundred cannon
to be mounted on the walls of this city
and to be ready for deployment within the week.
Every foundry in Rome will be suborned for this purpose.
His Eminence will see that you are
furnished with everything you may need.
Good luck to you and God speed.
What of the consistory, Father?
They will run again, like rats.
Oh, the consistory. I may need your help to convince them.
You tricked the French King and now he comes for our blood!
Do you expect us to support you twice?
We will defend Rome, this time with our life.
With your guile again? Your lies? Your weasel words?
- No. - Then tell us how, Your Holiness.
With gunpowder.
We have ordered 1 00 cannon, 1 0 times this size.
We will defend this great city of ours with our lives,
with our funds,
and with our cannon.
Take the other end.
- A month? - Per cannon, per foundry, yes.
I have a first mould already made...
Every foundry in Rome, how many are there?
- Twenty, maybe 30, but... - Every foundry in Rome,
every smelter, every furnace man,
working day and night, how many might we make then?
One cannon, maybe two.
What?
My Lord, our bronze was all sold, on orders from His Holiness,
to pay for the great festivities.
Forgive me, My Lord.
Boy, take the cart out again.
How like that little cannon is our great city of Rome.
A fragile illusion of substance.
Indeed, My Lord, it is but plaster.
The mould is only half-full.
Why plaster?
Before we cast the mould in bronze, we make a sample in plaster.
And plaster, unlike bronze, sets fast, is plentiful...
And cheap.
Have you heard, brother?
The French are advancing from Naples. They will be here within days.
They may murder the Borgia Pope for you.
He tricked the King once.
And he suffered for it.
He will take his revenge and spare you the blemish
on your eternal soul.
If I was not now bound to poverty, I would take a wager with you.
Borgia duplicity might yet undo him.
And I would bet that you would lose.
Forgive my appearance, Your Eminence.
We have worked long hours without sleep and...
I only care about your work, Signor Vittorio.
The fate of all of us depends on it.
This is true artistry.
I'm pleased it pleases you, My Lord.
And there are...
Ninety-five more like it making their way from other foundries as we speak.
Perhaps our fragile illusion will yet have substance.
It will, My Lord. Take it from one who knows!
You're a...
Yes, My Lord.
Forgive me, I thought perhaps your father...
My father? What does my father...
But clearly I was mistaken.
Is nothing in this damned city what it seems?
At least I know you can keep a secret.
The French envoy still awaits your word, Holy Father.
I know.
He's been waiting all night.
I know, I know!
King Charles merely asks for safe passage through Rome.
To rape and pillage in safety!
He has reason enough to hate us.
As do Caterina and Giovanni Sforza.
A holy trinity of vengeance.
Shall we have our cannon, my son?
Take the other end.
You need to trust me, Father.
For once.
Tell that envoy
that Rome is more than just her walls.
She is the Eternal City
and she will not be raped and deflowered.
Tell him Rodrigo Borgia spake these words.
I have word for the King.
You are denied entry to Rome, My Liege.
Are they mad?
Your Spanish Pope has more appetite for war
than you imagined, Lady Caterina.
So we must will ourselves to battle once more.
You think the blood of the Borgia Pope could cure us, Caterina Sforza?
We could bathe in it together, Majesty.
Pull the weights!
There is no weight, sir.
You must be getting stronger!
Steady!
You there!
Pull it all the way forward.
Bring it in! Careful!
It's useless.
What's this? Look at this.
Yes, we'll have no a problem beating them now, lads.
We've got a fucking toy cannon.
Oh, no! What happened?
Is he dead?
You will pretend these cannons have weight,
that they are real.
As real as this.
- Yes, sir. - Back to work.
Bring the next one up.
Will it pass?
Barely. Let's pray.
How long to batter the walls apart?
The walls are 1 0 foot thick, My Liege.
Twelve hours of fire should achieve it.
Twelve hours of cannon fire.
Could I perhaps sleep through it?
If Your Highness puts wax in his ears.
The fever returns?
It never leaves us, Caterina Sforza.
But the smell of battle will be its own medicine.
It does quicken the blood.
And what does your son know about artillery?
- I know enough. - And of combat, if it comes to it?
Again, I know enough and it will not come to that.
Can you be sure?
Go with God, my son.
Push!
Take your positions!
Men in position!
All ready.
Open the gates! Open the gates!
You make a manly figure on your horse, Cardinal.
But the French cannon will soon break down your walls.
And you will be impotent in the face of them.
My walls may yet prove stronger than you think, my lady.
The King!
Make way!
Move to your left!
We have Italian friends, Cardinal Borgia,
but our business is all French.
And that business is?
To gain entry to the city of Rome.
The easy way, or the hard.
You have decorated the walls of Rome with flags and pennants.
To welcome us, we presume.
Your Highness is indeed welcome
to march on past Rome.
I warn you, Cardinal, I shall raze your city!
Take terrible revenge!
On you, your family, and the papacy itself!
You must enter first.
My cannon will gain me entry.
Twelve hours, I have been assured, to batter down those walls.
Perhaps my cannon will make their statement first.
Cannons forward!
Forward!
Rams!
Rams ready!
More cannon balls! Quickly, quickly!
How did he manage to...
General?
Our battle line is still forming, My Liege.
Load, load!
I must compliment Your Highness on his ingenuity.
Chained cannonballs can take apart a regiment like
a knife through butter.
Are you not well, Your Highness?
We have the Neapolitan fever.
Perhaps battle should wait, then,
until his full health returns.
Or perhaps he should trace his gracious path home
to fair France.
Do I give the signal, My Liege?
Do I look like a fool, General?
No, My Liege.
We ride on past.
Retreat!
Come down and retreat!
Do you know what that sound is?
It is the sound of our salvation.
The French are leaving!
A miracle! This is a miracle!
God is great! God is great!
Your Holiness.
Father!
They're leaving Rome.
Father!
Oh, thank God.
Thank God.
My son.
We should melt down that bell, Holy Father.
Why melt it down?
To make cannon.
Real cannon, this time.
Cesare, your genius worked!
So clever!