SAINTPLUME

The Vatican’s Toast: Poisoned Wine and Papal Betrayal

By N.B. — Estimated reading time: 4 minutes

In the salons of Renaissance Rome, betrayal was not declared with daggers or decrees. It arrived in crystal goblets, shimmering under candlelight, and with it, a toast no man refused.

In the late 15th and early 16th centuries, the Vatican was a paradox: a sacred institution cloaked in corruption, where spiritual authority entwined with temporal power. Under the rule of Pope Alexander VI, Rodrigo Borgia, the papal court transformed into one of Europe’s most ruthless centers of political manipulation. Alliances were brokered with smiles, debts settled by whispers, and rivals dispatched not on battlefields but at dining tables.

One of the most persistent and well-documented legends of this era revolves around the calculated use of poison as a diplomatic weapon. The Borgias, particularly Cesare Borgia, son of Alexander VI, were rumored to possess a mastery of chemical death. While much has been exaggerated by chroniclers hostile to the Borgia name, certain events remain difficult to dismiss.

On the evening of August 18, 1503, a private banquet was held at the villa of Cardinal Adriano Castellesi. Present were Pope Alexander VI, Cesare Borgia, and several favored cardinals, including the influential Cardinal Giovanni Battista Orsini. Contemporary accounts, notably those of Johann Burchard, the papal master of ceremonies, describe a sumptuous feast, punctuated by elaborate toasts in honor of new political agreements.

Within days, Orsini fell gravely ill and died shortly after. Several others present also reported symptoms of violent stomach pains and fevers. Though official Vatican records remained silent, European courts whispered of poison in the wine decanter, intended for a rival cardinal but mistakenly consumed by Alexander VI himself. The pope fell ill that very night and died within a week, under circumstances Burchard delicately recorded as “most grievous.”

Though Cesare Borgia recovered, his strength was never fully restored. The rapid decline of Orsini and the subsequent deaths of several other cardinals in similar circumstances throughout the early 1500s contributed to Rome’s dark reputation for toxic intrigue.

What sets this tale apart from mere courtly gossip is its reflection in multiple credible sources. Sarah Bradford, in her biography of Lucrezia Borgia, notes the ubiquity of poison plots in Borgia politics, while Christopher Hibbert’s rigorous study underscores the political motivations behind targeted banquets. Further, Eamon Duffy’s authoritative history on the popes corroborates the lethal climate of Alexander VI’s court, describing poison as “an instrument as reliable as the sword in Roman statecraft.”

It is no coincidence that Renaissance physicians in Rome perfected antidotes and poison tests for courtiers. Accounts of powdered arsenic, cantharides, and deadly tinctures slipped into wine and fruit were part of documented court life, not mere legend.

This ritual of perilous toasting was a reflection of Renaissance power structures: alliances secured over food and drink, where the dining table was both a diplomatic stage and an execution ground. The Borgias did not invent this practice, but in the dangerous swirl of Renaissance politics, they elevated it into an art.

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