Cesare Borgia

My father was Alexander VI. In youth I wore the red hat; in 1498 I set it down. In France I took Charlotte d'Albret to wife; Louis XII made me Duke of Valentinois and lent me his lances. With that favor—and with my own will—I turned to the Romagna, where towns changed masters with the seasons and oaths were wind.

I entered Imola and Forlì—Caterina Sforza held out until her walls failed—then Pesaro, Rimini, Faenza, Urbino. I sought more than plunder: I wanted quiet roads and steady tribute. I took into my service Leonardo da Vinci; his cool eye measured walls and waters, and his plan of Imola pleased me better than flattery.

To break factions and brigandage, I set Remirro de Orco to swift justice. When the land was still, I had him cut in two at Cesena, with the block and knife beside him, that all might see the cruelty was not my nature but my instrument.

My captains conspired at Magione; at Senigallia I embraced them at dawn and strangled them by night. Machiavelli watched and learned. Then fortune shifted: my father died in 1503; Julius II bound me and sent me to Spain. I slipped La Mota in 1506 and rode to Navarre to serve my brother-in-law the king. Near Viana, facing the Count of Lerin’s men, I fell—as I had lived—at the front.