Caesarum licet stantem mori — It becomes a Caesar to die standing.
. . . . .
He was born for the glory of arms; it was not for nothing that his mother had named him Cesare. From a score of names fit for a son of House Borgia, she had chosen the very one borne by the greatest of Roman warlords. A commander who had come within a hair's breadth of being Emperor. And though his father had intended him for the crimson cloth all his life, dangling the promise that he might one day trade the cardinal's hat for the Papal tiara, Cesare had no stomach for such a fate. His blood ran too hot for humility and prayer, and his flesh was too weak to deny its appetites. He intended to conquer the world, that his illustrious namesake might look upon him with pride—a feat equally difficult whether one languished in a monk's cell or prowled the Apostolic Palace.
In this grave injustice lay the poisoned root of all his misery: Cesare envied his brothers with a terrible ferocity. Pedro Luis, though he died young, had earned his spurs warring against the Moors. And Juan—dim-witted, talentless Juan—had received not only the title of Duke of Gandia and the station of Gonfalonier of the Church but had also stolen their father's love.
Yet, his life was not merely a tapestry of shadows. There existed a boundless wellspring of joy and light, and her name was Lucrezia. His sweet sister had ever been his pillar in times of trial, whispering hope when all seemed bleak. There was more sanctity in her little finger than in the entire College of Cardinals. Enemies stained her name with foul whispers of harlotry and unnatural unions, yet their venom could not harden her heart.
Cesare's life took a sharp and bloody turn the day they dragged Juan from the muddy Tiber. Nine stabs they had given him, before opening his throat. The killer was never found. Though the death broke his father's heart, it granted Cesare the chance to cast aside his holy vows and take his brother's place at the head of the army. And if envious tongues branded him a kinslayer, well, their buzzing had long since become a familiar drone.
It seemed his dream was nearly within his grasp: the Romagna had submitted to him, yielding as a high-spirited maid yields to the passion of a persistent, skilled lover. His name thundered across Italy, echoing like the march of a thousand boots. But the sweet taste of triumph turned to ash and a fear that pulled at his sinews—Father died. And by some cruel twist of fate, his successor, a man who looked a frail and sickly craven, used his very first bull to cast Cesare out of the Church. Then came the darkness: years of wandering, imprisonment, flight.
When he reached Navarre and reunited with his good-brother, it seemed for a moment that all might be mended. It was a sweet lie, and easy to believe. In truth, it was but the prolongation of his agony. The pacification of rebellious vassals turned to disaster. His company was taken unawares; the odds were hopeless, yet he could not retreat. He fought with the savage fury of a cornered wolf. They wounded him, dragged him to the earth, sought to crush him with sheer weight of numbers, but he resisted, selling his life dearly.
When his strength finally failed him, they stripped him of his plate and boots. They left him there, believing him meat for the crows. They would have done better to finish the butchery, truly.
Cesare lay on the hard earth of Navarre, so far from his native Italy, pondering the fickle turns of fortune. So, who was he in the end: Caesar, or nothing? If judged by the sum of it, then nothing. What had he left behind? A few conquered cities that had already scurried back to their old masters? The contraptions of Leonardo, whom he had briefly patronized? Or perhaps his little daughter, Louise, a babe he had never even seen?
The gall of disappointment grew bitter in his throat with every passing moment. He did not regret the manner of his living, though history would surely damn him. He knew his errors, yet he could not say with certainty which one had been his undoing. He believed the world would not end with his last breath; Lucrezia would live a long and happy life, perhaps sparing a thought now and then for her dreamer of a brother.
His body grew colder. This inevitable, mortal chill dulled the pain that had become his companion. His mind began to swim, and the rustling leaves above turned into ugly, shapeless blots. Yet Cesare still clawed at existence, refusing to accept defeat. He had long since lost faith in God or the Devil, but in this moment, he was ready to plead with any power capable of hearing him. He wanted to live. But more than that, he hungered for the chance to begin again, to play the game anew—to make his ascent once more and not plummet into the abyss but a single step from the imperial crown.
A gust of wind carried the murmur of men's voices across the clearing. A few moments more, and the King of Navarre's men would find their commander, staring blindly into the sky with cold, empty eyes.