Mistress of the Vatican (33 page)

In quick succession, the princess had three children, two boys and a girl. One boy died young, which presented a problem. While the first son was to take the Borghese name to continue his father’s line, a second son was required to take the Aldobrandini name, as that line had died out. Her uncle Cardinal Aldobrandini had left a will stating that his entire fortune would go to Olimpia’s second son if he took the Aldo-brandini name.

On June 24, 1646, at the age of twenty-four, Prince Paolo Borghese died. To avoid the ten-thousand-scudi fee for bringing a dead body into Rome, the family smuggled him into the city hidden in a hay cart and secretly interred him in the family crypt. Olimpia Aldobrandini, the princess of Rossano, was now a widow—a very beautiful, very rich young widow who urgently needed to remarry and bear a son to reap her uncle’s fortune.

As soon as Prince Borghese’s death was known, speculation began about who would marry the princess. She must endure eight months of mourning before remarrying, during which time a prince of Naples offered his hand and the ruler of Modena sent flattering letters. But it was the French government, as usual, who knew what was really going on. Their spies were the best, working as indispensable servants in all the most powerful households. Wise in the ways of human nature, these spies were always looking for the woman stories, which is why the term “
cherchez la femme
” exists in French and no other language.

On June 25, 1646, while Prince Paolo’s body was being stuffed into the hay cart, the French ambassador, Saint-Nicolas, sent word to Cardinal Mazarin in Paris, “Here is a rich widow who people already say will marry Cardinal Pamphili.”
³

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What the French already knew, Rome soon found out. Perhaps they saw Camillo’s carriage with the pope’s coat of arms making its way up to the Villa Borghese more frequently than was suitable for a man of the church. Perhaps people noticed the meaningful glances the two exchanged at Roman society parties or Vatican events. It seemed that the rich widow, dismissing her princely suitors, was going to marry the cardinal nephew.

The marriage of a prince of the church was not necessarily forbidden. Until 1917 cardinals were not required to be ordained as priests. The pope had wisely conferred on Camillo only minor orders and not priestly ordination, a sacrament that was thought to tattoo the human soul with an invisible but ineradicable seal that prevented marriage. The cardinalate, on the other hand, was a dignity. And a dignity was like a coat; it could be put on and taken off at will. Remaining unsealed, Camillo could legally take off his coat and marry.

Though it was rare for a cardinal to renounce his position, a few did. Usually these were the brothers of rulers who died without heirs, cardinals who suddenly found themselves kings and were required to marry, have children, and rule a nation.

We might wonder why the princess, who could have married anyone, would want to marry a cardinal. Perhaps the cachet of scandal appealed to her—the forbidden romance, the man who had everything giving it up for
her
. She was a seventeenth-century version of Wallis Warfield Simpson, the American socialite for whom King Edward VIII of Great Britain gave up his throne in 1936. The princess was thrilled to be the woman for whom a king—or in this case a cardinal nephew—renounced his throne.

The frisson of scandal aside, we might also wonder what the princess saw in Camillo himself. Gregorio Leti recounted the general surprise among noble Romans “to see a princess so universally sought after and desired by so many princes and great noblemen give her affection to a man who was already known to everyone as a very simple person.”
⁴

True, Camillo was handsome, with his fine features and dark, silky beard, but so were dozens of other Roman noblemen. This was, after

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all, Italy, which boasted the best-looking people in Europe. Camillo could write a pretty verse and discuss the latest theories of gardening, but so could any Roman schoolboy. He had plenty of money from his two years as cardinal nephew, but the princess of Rossano’s fortune was so immense that money was not an issue. It is likely that her interest was heightened by Camillo’s close relationship to the reigning pontiff. As papal niece,
she
would be first lady of Rome, shoving aside the papal sister-in-law. The princess wanted not only to take first place at ceremonial events, she was itching to take over Olimpia’s political power and run the Vatican.

The bride’s rival would not relinquish her position cheerfully, of course. And by far the worst burden that came with Camillo Pamphili was his vampire of a mother, who would sink her teeth into anyone— especially a beautiful young woman—threatening her control over the pope. The image of this harpy as a mother-in-law would have struck fear into the hearts of many a young noblewoman who otherwise might have been interested in Cardinal Camillo. But the princess of Rossano was not like other women.

Perhaps the frightening mother-in-law was actually an attraction for her. Here, at last, was a worthy opponent with whom she could thrust and parry. Here was a duel in which she could use all her bounteous talents to draw some blood. The princess of Rossano accepted the cardinal’s offer of marriage and sharpened her sword to do battle with his mother.

When Camillo told his mother that he wanted to marry and his choice had fallen on the princess of Rossano, Olimpia was horror-stricken. She had encouraged him to have an affair with the princess as a means of keeping him far from the Vatican so that she could do his work. According to the Venetian ambassador, “His mother consciously fomented a love affair to distract him from the applications of business, sending him often to various gatherings and conversations” with the princess.
⁵
Now her plot had backfired horribly. She had never envisioned that he would want to
marry
the woman.

She was not appalled at the idea of Camillo’s marrying; she of all people had known he was hopelessly ill suited for the job of cardinal

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nephew. But Olimpia realized that allowing the princess of Rossano into the family would be like opening the gates of Rome to the Goths, or perhaps inviting the Lutherans back in for another sack. This was not a woman to meekly accept orders from her mother-in-law. Here was a woman as smart, grasping, ambitious, and manipulative as Olim-pia herself.

It is likely that Olimpia was not averse to fighting her battles with a daughter-in-law—she had, over the course of her life, taken on much worse and come out victorious. But what frightened her most was the thought of the pope’s reaction to this charming new niece. There would be frequent interaction between Innocent and the princess, of course— lunches, dinners, banquets, religious events, and the more official papal audiences in which the lovely bride would request honors and benefits for her family and friends and would try to influence papal policy. Olimpia knew that the princess of Rossano, with her words as smooth, sweet, and golden as honey, would be able to convince the pope to do whatever she asked. And those honors and benefits could very well be the exact ones Olimpia had her eye on, and those papal policies might directly contradict what she was conniving at.

Olimpia knew that even if by some saintly miracle she could suddenly once more become twenty-three, the charms of the princess would have beaten hers hands down; and now she was fifty-five. The princess’s figure was slender, shapely, achingly perfect. Olimpia’s was, well, that of a fifty-five-year-old who enjoyed her dinners. Her jowls were sagging, and then there was that pesky double chin.

Olimpia was of mediocre birth, the unwanted daughter of a rural assistant tax collector. The princess boasted close connections to three papal bloodlines and was a cousin of the reigning duke of Parma. Olimpia had received the most rudimentary education; her conversation was a slab of brown beef thrown on the table. The princess’s conversation was, in comparison, sparkling peach champagne, bubbling with erudite witticisms uttered in several languages ancient and modern.

Even though there had not been the slightest rumor of the pope’s having sex with a woman—other than Olimpia, of course—Innocent was undoubtedly drawn to attractive women and listened to their ad-

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vice. Hadn’t Olimpia herself managed to wrap him around her little finger when she was at the height of her beauty? He was still tightly wrapped, of course, but that might not last long with the princess of Rossano prancing before him, flashing him brilliant smiles, batting her long black lashes, and playing the sexy dancing Salome to Innocent’s entranced Herod.

Europe’s elite were kept well informed of the romantic stalemate in Rome, which provoked much laughter, speculation, and wagering. On December 20, 1646, Cardinal Mazarin wrote a friend that Olimpia “feared that the princess would take ascendancy over the spirit of His Holiness.”
⁶
Gregorio Leti explained that Olimpia “feared that the pope would have greater pleasure in talking with a young niece than with an old sister-in-law.”
⁷

Olimpia resolved to put a stop to it. No, she would never tolerate the union. If Camillo insisted on marrying, Olimpia would find him a girl of excellent connections to be sure, but a lumpish girl—awkward, painfully shy, and humbly obedient. Pimples would be a great advantage, as well as pigeon toes, bad teeth, a flat chest, and eyes that were ever so slightly crossed.

And she had just such a girl in mind. Lucrezia Barberini was now an unattractive seventeen-year-old, her eyebrows bushier than ever, living in French exile with her uncle, Cardinal Antonio. By marrying Camillo to Lucrezia, the Barberinis could come back immediately and remain forever grateful to Olimpia, especially in the next conclave. And the timid Lucrezia would never have the nerve to interfere in papal policy.

But Camillo remained firm. He would never marry Lucrezia Bar-berini. Never. He was in love with the princess of Rossano. According to French reports, the unhappy cardinal made desperate threats— perhaps suicidal in nature—and Olimpia was close to bursting with rage. The French envoy Saint-Nicolas reported to Mazarin in January 1647 that the pope was, as usual, torn by indecision. Certainly he was delighted at the idea of getting rid of his useless cardinal nephew. He also sympathized with the young man, in love, wanting to do the honorable thing and continue the Pamphili family line. And clearly Camillo could not have picked a more magnificent bride.

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But there was Olimpia’s fury to deal with. The pope couldn’t go against that. And there was another problem. Innocent told Saint-Nico-las that he was afraid of looking stupid, what with Camillo’s putting on and taking off the red hat in such a ridiculous manner. Camillo was ready to peevishly throw away the incomparable honor of being a prince of the Catholic Church, and this would reflect poorly on his uncle, who set high value on the dignity of the Holy See. Camillo, the pope continued, had been importuning him for the marriage since August. Afraid of tarnishing his reputation, the pope inclined against it.

Cardinal Panciroli weighed in on Camillo’s side for two reasons. First, he was delighted to lose such a millstone around the neck as Camillo had been while pretending to work in the Vatican. Second, he enjoyed upsetting Olimpia, who had so interfered with his political affairs. Hearing of Panciroli’s support for the marriage, Olimpia marched into the Vatican several times, venting her fury, crying “that this marriage was an obscenity and that if her son planned to marry she would approve of no other than Donna Lucrezia Barberini because in this manner it would firmly stabilize the friendship and union of the two families.”
⁸
In response, Panciroli shrugged and smiled.

Though Camillo had Cardinal Panciroli’s support, he knew that the pope usually followed Olimpia’s advice. With Olimpia against him, Camillo needed to bring out the big guns in his defense. His trump card was Sister Agatha, the pope’s beloved older sister in the Tor de’ Specchi Convent.

A convent, like a harem, keeps its secrets to itself, secrets that die with the nuns. We know of Sister Agatha only from a few scrawled letters in the family archives and numerous reports of her tireless efforts to make peace among her warring relatives. Forgiving, compassionate, and kind, Sister Agatha was required frequently to intervene among the fractious Pamphilis. Given her advanced age and the fact that she was the pope’s sister, she was one of the only nuns to have carte blanche in coming and going from her convent.

When her desperate nephew begged her to intervene on his behalf, obediently the little nun went to the Vatican to implore the pope to

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agree to the marriage. The pontiff now found himself hounded by Olimpia, Cardinal Panciroli, Sister Agatha, Princes Giustiniani and Ludovisi, and a myriad of cardinals, ambassadors, and advisors who weighed in on one side or the other. Paralyzed by indecision, the pope became ill and took to his bed.