Madonna of the Seven Hills

SANCHIA OF ARAGON

The voluptuous Sanchia lay on her bed nibbling sweetmeats. Sprawling on the bed, helping themselves now and then from the dish were her three favorite ladies-in-waiting: Loysella, Francesca and Bernardina.

Sanchia was telling them about last night’s lover, for she enjoyed recounting details of her various love affairs, declaring that thus she acquired a double pleasure—first in actuality, then in memory.

Sanchia was strikingly beautiful, and one of her greatest attractions was the contrast between her dark hair, dark brows, olive skin and her startling blue eyes. Her features were bold, her nose aquiline and beautifully shaped; her mouth was soft and sensual. To look at Sanchia was to be reminded immediately of erotic pleasures; Sanchia knew this, and the frank sensuality of her smile suggested that she had made discoveries which were unknown to all others but which she would be delighted to impart to those at whom she was smiling, that they and they alone might share this secret.

Sanchia had had lovers for as long as she could remember and she knew that she would go on taking them until she died.

“I do not anticipate the journey with much pleasure,” she was saying now. “But what fun it will be when we arrive in Rome. I am halfway in love with Cesare Borgia already, and I have not even seen him. Oh, what a great passion awaits us!”

“You will make the Pope jealous of his own son,” suggested Francesca.

“I think not. I think not. I shall leave his Holiness to you, Loysella, or perhaps to little Bernardina. Together mayhap you will compensate him for his weariness of Madonna Giulia—she who is known as La Bella.”

Loysella said: “Madonna, you should not talk thus of the Holy Father.”

“He is but a man, my child. And do not look so shocked. It is not as though I suggest you should be bedfellow to that mad monk Savonarola.”

Loysella shivered, but Sanchia’s eyes were speculative. “I have never had a lover who was a monk,” she mused. “Perhaps on our journey we shall pass by some monastery.…”

“Oh, you are wicked, Madonna,” said Francesca with a giggle. “Are you not afraid to talk thus?”

“I am afraid of nothing,” retorted Sanchia. “I confess and I do my penances. When I am old I shall reform my ways and doubtless enter a nunnery.”

“It will have to be a monastery for you, wicked one,” said Loysella.

“Nay, nay, although I would try a monk, it would be but for once. I do not ask for monk night after night … day after day.”

“Hush!” said Francesca. “If our conversation were reported …”

“It matters not. No one attempts to make me change my ways. My father the King knew how I love men, yet what did he do? He said: ‘She is one of us. You cannot grow oranges on pear trees.’ My brother shakes his head and agrees; and even my old grandmother knew it was useless to try to reform me.”

“His Holiness will reform you. It is for this reason that he sends for you.”

Sanchia smiled wickedly. “From what I hear of His Holiness it is not to reform me that he invites me to Rome.”

Loysella pretended to stop her ears because she would not listen to such profanity, but Sanchia merely laughed and bade Francesca bring out the necklace of gold and rubies which her latest lover had brought her.

She leaped up and putting on the necklace paraded before them.

“He said: ‘Only the best is worthy to adorn that perfect body.’ ”

She grimaced and looked at the necklace. “I hope it is of the best,” she said.

“The workmanship is exquisite,” Francesca cried, examining it.

“You may try it on,” said Sanchia. “All of you. Ah,” she went on, “last night was wonderful. To-night perhaps will be as exciting, but perhaps not. It is the voyage of discovery which enchants me. The second night is like crossing a sea which has already been traversed. Not the same surprises … not the same discoveries. How I wish I had been here when the French soldiers were in Naples!”

Francesca pretended to shiver. “There have been such tales. You would not have escaped. They would have seized on you.”

“That would have been exciting. And they say the French are good lovers, and so chivalrous, so gallant. To think that while we were cowering on that dull, dull island of Ischia, such exciting things were going on in Naples.”

“You might have hated it,” suggested Bernardina. “There was one woman who, pursued by soldiers, killed herself by leaping from the roof of her house.”

“I can think of better resting places than the courtyard stones,” said Sanchia. “Oh yes, I wish I had been here to meet the gallant French. I was angry … quite angry when we were hustled away to live in exile. That is why I must take so many lovers now. There is much time to be made up. You understand?”

“Our lady makes up for lost time very creditably,” Loysella murmured.

“At least,” said Sanchia, “the rumors have not lied. His Holiness writes to my father that accounts of my conduct, which have reached him in Rome, have most seriously disturbed him.”

“Madonna … Sanchia, take care … take care when you reach Rome.”

“Take care! Nay, I’ll take Cesare instead.”

“I have heard much talk of Cesare,” said Loysella.

“Strange talk,” put in Francesca.

“It is said,” went on Loysella, “that when he casts his eyes on a woman and says ‘Come hither,’ she dare not disobey. If she does, she is taken by force and punished for having dared delay in obeying the lord Cardinal.”

“I have heard,” added Bernardina, “that he roams the streets looking for suitable virgins to fill his harem. I have heard that any who stand in his way die mysteriously; none knows how.”

Sanchia clasped her hands at the back of her neck, threw back her rippling black hair and laughed. “He sounds more exciting than any man I have ever met. I long to see him face to face.”

“Take care, Sanchia,” begged Bernardina. “Take care when you come face to face with Cesare Borgia.”

“I would have you take care,” said Sanchia with a laugh. “I pray you keep my little Goffredo busy this evening. I do not want him strolling into my bedchamber when I am entertaining visitors. It is bad for the dear little creature’s morals.”

The girls laughed.

“Dear Goffredo. He’s a darling, and so pretty. I long to pet him,” declared Francesca.

“You may pet him all you wish,” Sanchia promised her. “But I pray you keep him from my bedchamber. Where is he now? Let us have him come to us and tell us about his brother. After all, he knows more of Cesare Borgia than any one of us.”

They helped Sanchia into her gown, and she was lying back on her pillows when Goffredo came in.

He was very pretty and looked younger than his years, for he was nearly fourteen.

He ran to the bed and threw himself down beside his wife. She put out an arm and held him against her while she stroked his beautiful hair, which was touched with tints of copper. His long-lashed eyes looked at his wife with admiration. He knew that he had married a woman who was said to be the most lovely in all Italy. He had heard her beauty compared with that of his sister, Lucrezia, and his father’s mistress, Giulia; and most of those who had seen the three beauties declared that Sanchia had beauty to equal the others and something more—there was a witchery about Sanchia, something which made her unique. She was insatiably sensual; she scattered promises of undreamed-of delight on all those of the opposite sex who came near her. Thus, although the golden beauty of Lucrezia and Giulia was admired, the dark beauty of Sanchia was more than admired; it was never forgotten.

“And what has my little husband been doing this day?” asked Sanchia.

He put up his face to kiss the firm white chin. “I have been riding,” he said. “What a pretty necklace!”

“It was given me last night.”

“I did not see you last night. Loysella said I must not disturb you.”

“Wicked Loysella,” said Sanchia lightly.

“You had a lover with you,” stated Goffredo. “Was he pleasing?”

She kissed his head absently, thinking of last night’s lover.

“I have known worse, and I have known better,” she pronounced judgment.

Goffredo laughed and lifted his shoulder slightly, as a child does in pleasure. He turned to Loysella and said: “My wife has had more lovers than any other woman in Naples—except courtesans of course. You cannot include courtesans, you will agree.”

“Agreed,” said Francesca.

“Now,” demanded Sanchia, “tell us about your brother. Tell us about the famous Cesare Borgia.”

“You will never have known a man like my brother Cesare.”

“All that we have heard leads us to believe it,” Sanchia answered.

“My father loves him dearly,” boasted Goffredo, “and no woman has ever said no to him.”

“We have heard that women are punished for saying no to him,” said Loysella. “How can that be, if none ever do?”

“Because they know he would punish them if they said no. They would be afraid to say it. Therefore they do not say no, but yes … yes … yes.”

“It’s logic,” said Sanchia, “So must we all prepare ourselves to say yes … yes … yes.”

She popped a sweetmeat into Goffredo’s mouth; he lay back against her, sucking contentedly.

“Francesca,” commanded Sanchia, “comb my little husband’s hair. It is such pretty hair. When it is brushed it glows like copper.”

Francesca obeyed; the other two girls stretched themselves out at the foot of the bed. Sanchia lay back sleepily, her arm about Goffredo. Occasionally she would reach for a sweetmeat and nibble a piece before putting it into Goffredo’s mouth.

Goffredo, well contented, began to boast.

He boasted about Cesare—Cesare’s prowess, Cesare’s cruelty.

Goffredo did not know for whom his admiration was the greater: for his brother at whose name everyone in Rome trembled, or for his wife who had taken more lovers than any woman in Naples, except of course courtesans—which was an unfair comparison.

The cavalcade which made its way toward Rome was a merry one, for in its center rode the lovely Sanchia with her little husband and her three devoted ladies-in-waiting. Sanchia had the bearing of a queen; it might have been because she was the illegitimate daughter of the King of Naples that in public she assumed an air of royalty; this enhanced her startling attractiveness because, underlying the air of royalty, was that look of promise which was directed toward any personable young men she encountered, no matter if they were no more than grooms.

Her ladies-in-waiting laughed at her promiscuity; they themselves were far from prudish; lighthearted in their love affairs as butterflies on a sunny day, they flitted from lover to lover: but they lacked the stamina of Sanchia.

Sanchia had ceased to regret that she had not stayed behind in Naples during the French invasion. She had ceased to care because she had not been allowed to meet the French King. Cesare Borgia, she felt sure, would be a more amusing and exciting lover than poor little Charles.

In any case Sanchia was not one to repine. Life was too full of pleasure for such as she was; her kingdom was within her reach. Sad and terrible things might happen to those about her. Her father had been driven to exile and to madness. Poor Father! He had been heartbroken when the French took his kingdom.

Knowing of his anguish, Sanchia was determined not to set store on such treasures as those which delighted her father.

When she had heard that they were to marry her to a little boy—a Pope’s bastard and not even a favorite bastard at that—she had at first been piqued. That was because the proposed marriage had shown her clearly that she was not of the same importance as her half-sister who was the legitimate daughter of King Alfonso.

Goffredo Borgia, the son of Vannozza Catanei and possibly the Borgia Pope—and possibly not! She knew that there had been suspicions as to her little husband’s birth and that at times even the Pope had declared the boy to be no son of his. Should Sanchia, daughter of the King of Naples—illegitimate though she might be—be given in marriage to such as Goffredo?

But they had explained to her: Whether or not he is the Pope’s bastard, the Pope accepts him, and that is all that matters.

They were right. The Pope sought alliance with Naples and it was for this reason that the marriage was arranged. But suppose there should be a time when the Pope fell out with Naples and no longer considered the marriage could bring him good?

She had heard how Giovanni Sforza had fallen out of favor with the Pope, and how shabbily he was treated in Vatican circles.

But that was different. Sforza was a man, not very attractive, not prepossessing, and of a nature which could not be called charming. Sanchia would know how to take care of herself, as poor Giovanni Sforza had not.

So she had become reconciled to her marriage, and she had grown fond of the little boy they had brought to her; she had joined in the sly jokes about the marriage and there had been many, for the whole Court knew that she had her lovers, and they could not hide their amusement at the thought of their experienced and accomplished Princess with this young boy.

Such a pretty little boy he had been when they had brought him to her. And, when they had been put to bed and he had been a little frightened by those who had crowded about them with their crude jokes and lewd gestures, she had answered them with dignity; and when she was alone with her husband she had taken him in her arms, wiped away his tears and told him not to fret. There was nothing he need worry about.

Being Sanchia she had been glad of such a husband. It was so simple to leave him in the care of those devoted ladies of hers while she entertained her lovers.

Thus it was with Sanchia. Life would always be merry. Lovers came into her life and passed out of it; her reputation was known throughout Italy; and she believed there were few men who would not have been delighted to become the lover of Madonna Sanchia.

And so to Rome to become a member of that strange family regarding whom there were so many rumors.

In her baggage were the gowns she would wear when she visited the Pope in the Vatican; there was the gown in which she would make her entry. She must be beautiful for that because, if accounts could be relied upon, she had a rival in her sister-in-law, Lucrezia.

Rome was in a fever of excitement. All through the night the citizens had been congregating to line the streets. It would be a brilliant procession; the people were sure of that, for the Pope’s youngest son was bringing his bride to Rome, and one of the greatest accomplishments of the Borgias was their ability to organize brilliant pageants.

In the Vatican the Pope waited with obvious eagerness. It was noted that he was absentminded concerning his duties, but that he was deeply interested in the preparations which were being made for the reception of his daughter-in-law.

Cesare was also eagerly awaiting the arrival, although he did not express his joy as openly as did his father.

In the Palace of Santa Maria in Portico, Lucrezia was more anxious than any, as she was a little afraid of all she had heard concerning her sister-in-law.

Sanchia was beautiful. How beautiful? Lucrezia studied herself anxiously in her mirrors. Was her hair as golden as it had been? It was a pity Giulia was scarcely seen nowadays; being no longer in favor she was a rare visitor at the Vatican and at Santa Maria. Giulia would have offered comfort at a time like this. Lucrezia was aware of a slight feeling of anger, which was alien to her nature, when she thought of how Cesare and her father talked constantly of Madonna Sanchia.

“The most beautiful woman in Italy!” She had heard that again and again. “She has but to look at a man and he is her slave. It is witchcraft, so they say.”

Now Lucrezia was beginning to know herself. She was envious of Sanchia. She herself wished to be known as the most beautiful woman in Italy; she wished men to look at her and become her slaves; and she longed to be suspected of witchcraft because of her extraordinary powers.

And she was jealous … deeply jealous because of the attention Cesare and her father had given to this woman.

Now the day had arrived. Very soon Sanchia of Aragon would be riding up the Appian Way. Very soon Lucrezia would see whether rumor had lied.

She felt vaguely unhappy. She had not wanted to go to meet her sister-in-law, but her father had insisted: “But of course, my dearest, you must go to meet her. It is the respect due to your sister. And what a pleasant picture you will make—you and your ladies, she and hers. You two must be the most lovely creatures in the country.”

“I have heard it said that she is. Do you not think that she will put me in the shade?”

The Pope pinched his daughter’s cheek affectionately, murmuring: “Impossible! Impossible!”

But his eyes were gleaming and she, who had observed his absorption in Giulia at the beginning, knew that his thoughts were with Sanchia, not with his daughter.

Lucrezia wanted to stamp her foot, to shout at him: “You go and meet her, since you’re so eager for her arrival.” But being Lucrezia she merely bowed her head and suppressed her feelings.

So now she was preparing herself.

She stood in her apartment while her green and gold brocade dress was slipped over her head. There was a murmur of admiration from her women.

“Never, never, Madonna, have you looked so lovely,” she was told.

“Yes, yes,” she said, “here in the apartment among you all who are dressed without splendor. But how shall I look when we meet at the Lateran Gate? Suppose she is dressed more splendidly? How shall I look then, for they say she is the most beautiful woman in Italy, and that means in the world?”

“How can that be, Madonna, when you hold that title?”

Characteristically she allowed herself to be soothed; and indeed, when she looked at herself in green and gold, when her eyes went to the feathered bonnet which so became her, when she looked at her glistening golden hair, she was appeased. Nobody had hair like hers, except Giulia, and Giulia was out of favor.

Her train was ready and she had selected it with care. There were twelve girls in beautiful dresses—not beautiful girls but beautiful dresses; one did not want too much competition—and her pages wore mantles of red and gold brocade.

Lucrezia did not feel that she was going out to meet a sister-in-law, but a rival. She knew that while she murmured polite welcoming words she would really be thinking, Is she more beautiful than I? Are my father and my brother going to give all their attention to this newcomer and forget Lucrezia?

In the May sunshine, the retinues of the Cardinals were waiting for her, all splendidly clad, all glittering in the clear bright air; the ambassadors were present, and the palace guards were on duty.

The people cried out in admiration as Lucrezia with her twelve girls appeared. She certainly looked charming, her fair hair rippling about her shoulders beneath the feathered hat, and the green and gold brocade sparkling with jewels. But as they approached the Lateran Gate Lucrezia caught sight of the girl who had caused her so many jealous thoughts, and she realized that Sanchia was indeed a formidable rival.

Surrounded by the retinue which, as Princess of Squillace, Sanchia had brought with her—her halberdiers and equerries, her women and men, her slaves, her jesters—she rode with Goffredo at her side.

A quick look was enough to tell Lucrezia that Goffredo, although he had grown up a little, was still a boy. People might admire his pretty looks and his beautiful auburn hair, but it was toward the woman who rode beside him that every eye would be turned.

This was Sanchia, dressed solemnly in black—as was Goffredo—to remind all who beheld them that they were Spanish. Sanchia’s dress was heavily embroidered and her sleeves were wide; her blue-black hair rippled over her shoulders and her eyes were brilliantly blue in contrast.

Suddenly the green and gold brocade seemed girlish—pretty enough, but lacking the elegance of an embroidered black Spanish gown.

Sanchia’s dark eyebrows had been plucked a little, after the fashion, but they were still plentiful and her face was heavily painted; there were murmurings in the crowd that she looked older than nineteen.

Her manner was both royal and insolent. It was haughty, and yet as always there was that look of promise in her expression for every personable young man who caught her eye.

Lucrezia had drawn up her horse before that of her brother and sister-in-law, and their greeting was affectionate enough to satisfy all who beheld them.

Then they turned their horses and rode together toward the Vatican.

“I rejoice that we meet at last,” said Sanchia.

“I also rejoice,” answered Lucrezia.

“I am sure we shall be friends.”

“It is my ardent wish.”

“I have long desired to meet the members of my new family.”

“Particularly Cesare,” put in Goffredo. “Sanchia has asked endless questions about our brother.”

“He is as eager to see you. Reports of you have reached us here in Rome.”

Had she been alone with Lucrezia, Sanchia would have burst into loud laughter. As it was, she said: “Tales of you all have reached me. What beautiful hair you have, sister!”

“I must say the same of yours.”

“I have never seen hair so golden.”

“You will see it often now. The women of Rome are having silken wigs made, and we see them walking in the streets wearing them.”

“In honor of you, dear sister.”

“They are mostly courtesans.”

“Beauty is their business, and they try to look like you.”

Lucrezia smiled faintly but she was unable to hide the apprehension this young woman aroused in her.

She did not hear the whispers behind her.

“Madonna Lucrezia does not like to have a rival in the Vatican.”

“And what a rival!”

Alexander had been unable to wait with the Cardinals to greet the procession, as formality demanded. He had been in a room which overlooked the piazza, impatiently looking out, so eager was he for the first glimpse of this girl who was reputed to be more beautiful than any woman in Italy and as free with her favors as any courtesan.

Now as he saw her at the head of the procession, and riding beside her his golden-haired daughter—raven-haired and golden-haired—the sight enchanted him. How beautiful they were—both of them! What a contrast, a delightful contrast!

He must hurry down to be in his place to greet them when they arrived. He was all impatience to embrace the beautiful creature.

He stood beneath the golden vault, on which was depicted the story of Isis, as he waited for his daughter-in-law to come to him. About him were ranged the Cardinals, and Alexander knew a moment of great content. He reveled in all the pageantry, the ceremony, which as Holy Father he encountered at every hour of his daily life; he loved life; it had everything to offer him for which he craved and he was one of those rare beings who could be satisfied with each moment as it came. He was a happy man; and never happier than at moments such as this.

She was approaching now—beautiful, dark-haired, and so bold; her eyes were downcast, but she could not hide her boldness. She had all the arrogance of a woman who knows herself to be desired; she had all the charm of her sex for a man such as himself.

He was in a fever of excitement as she, with little Goffredo beside her, knelt to kiss his toe.

Now she had stepped back and the others came forward, those ladies of hers—all delicious, all worthy to be her handmaidens, thought Alexander. He studied them all in turn, and he felt anew his pleasure in having them with him.

Now they had taken their places; Goffredo was standing by Cesare, and Cesare had his speculative eyes on his brother’s bride; and on the steps of the throne, kneeling on two red velvet cushions, were Lucrezia and Sanchia.

Oh, this is a happy moment, thought Alexander; and he wished quickly to dispense with solemn ceremony that he might talk with his daughter-in-law, make her laugh, make her understand that, although he was her father-in-law and head of the Church, he was none the less a merry man and one who knew how to be gallant to the ladies.

One of the Cardinals who watched turned to another and said: “Brother and father have eyes on Goffredo’s wife.”

Another whispered: “All have eyes on Goffredo’s wife.”

The answer came back: “Mark my words, Madonna Sanchia will bring trouble to the Vatican.”

Sanchia came into Lucrezia’s apartment and with her were her three handmaidens.

Lucrezia was a little startled by the intrusion. It was Whit Sunday, two days after the arrival of Sanchia and Goffredo, and Lucrezia was being dressed for the service at St. Peter’s.

Sanchia had begun by ignoring all rules of etiquette and Lucrezia saw that she was determined to behave here in Rome as though she were at the lax court of Naples.

Sanchia’s dress was black, but she looked far from demure; the blue eyes were almost cynical, thought Lucrezia; it was as though Sanchia was weaving plans, secret subtle plans.

“And how is my dear sister this day?” asked Sanchia. “Ready for the ceremony? I hear we are to listen to a Spanish prelate.” She grimaced. “Spanish prelates are apt to be over-devout and therefore to deliver over-long sermons.”

“But we must attend,” Lucrezia explained. “My father will be present, and so will all the dignitaries of the Papal Court. It is an important occasion and …”

“Oh yes … oh yes … we must attend.”

Sanchia, putting her arm about Lucrezia and drawing her to a mirror, looked at their reflections. “I do not look as though I am about to attend a solemn service, do I? And, when I look closer, nor do you. Oh Lucrezia, how innocent you look with your lovely light eyes and your golden hair? But are you innocent, Lucrezia? Are you?”

“Innocent of what?” asked Lucrezia.

“Oh, life … of what you will. Oh Lucrezia, thoughts go on inside that golden head, of which you say nothing. You look startled. But I am right, am I not? One as lovely as you are cannot be so remote from … from all that makes the world so interesting.”

“I am afraid I do not understand.”

“Are you such a child then? What of Cesare? He will be at this solemn service. Do you know, sister, I have longed to meet you all, and you are the only one with whom so far I have been alone.”

“There have been so many ceremonies,” murmured Lucrezia, uncertain of the girl who was so outspoken and who therefore said those things which embarrassed and would have been so much better left unsaid.

“Oh yes. Later I shall know you all very well, I doubt not. Cesare is not exactly as I would have imagined him. He is as handsome in person as rumor says he is. But there is a strangeness about him, a brooding resentment.…”

“My brother wished to be a great soldier.”

“I see. I see. He does not take kindly to the robes of the Church.”

Lucrezia looked uneasily about her. She said to her servants: “That will be enough. Leave us now.”

She looked at Sanchia, expecting her to dismiss her women.

“They are my friends,” said Sanchia. “I hope they will be yours. They admire you. Do you not?” she demanded of the trio.

“We all agree that Madonna Lucrezia is quite lovely,” said Loysella.

“Now tell me about Cesare,” insisted Sanchia. “He is angry … a very angry man. I know it.”

“Cesare will always succeed in the end,” said Lucrezia. “He will always do what he sets out to do.”

“You are very fond of your brother?”

“It is impossible not to admire him more than anyone on Earth, as he excels all others.”

Sanchia smiled knowledgeably. Now she understood. There was something in these rumors she had heard, of the strange and passionate attachments which existed in the Borgia family.

She knew that Lucrezia was suspicious of her, jealous because she feared Sanchia might attract the Pope and Cesare so that they ceased to be so eager for Lucrezia’s company. It was a novel situation and one which appealed to Sanchia.

Moreover it was comforting to think that Cesare Borgia did not have all his own way. He hated the robes of the Church yet he was forced to wear them, and that was why she had seen that smoldering anger in his eyes. She, as the illegitimate daughter of the King of Naples, forced to take second place to her half-sister, understood his feelings. It drew her closer to Cesare, and his vulnerability intrigued her.

As they set out for St. Peter’s she felt almost recklessly gay; she put her arm lovingly through Lucrezia’s as they entered the church. How long the ceremony was! There was the Holy Father, seeming quite a different person from the jovial father who had been so affectionate during last night’s banquet. She had been right about the Spanish prelate; his sermon went on and on.

“I am tired,” she whispered to Lucrezia.

Lucrezia’s pale face turned slightly pink. The Princess from Naples seemed to have no understanding as to how to conduct herself during a solemn ceremony.

Lucrezia said nothing.

“Will the man never end?”

Loysella smothered a giggle, and Bernardina whispered: “For the love of the saints, Madonna, be quiet!”

“But it is too long to stand,” complained Sanchia. “Why should we not be seated? Look, there are empty pews.”

Lucrezia said in an agonized whisper: “They are for canons when they sing the gospel.”

“They shall be for us now,” said Sanchia.

Several heads turned on account of the whispering voices, so many saw this beautiful young woman climb into the pews with a rustling of silk and the exposure of very shapely legs. Loysella, Francesca and Bernardina, who followed their mistress in all things, did not hesitate. Where Sanchia went, so did they.

Lucrezia, watching them for a second, was aware of a rising excitement within her. She knew that these girls lived colorful lives, and she herself longed for the sort of adventures which she knew to be theirs; she wanted to identify herself with them.

Without hesitation, she followed, climbing into the pews, settling down beside them with a rustle of garments, an unusually mischievous smile on her lips, the laughter rising within her.

They had settled down in their pews and Sanchia had forced a look of mock piety on to her face. Loysella dropped her head hurriedly to hide her mirth, and Lucrezia needed all her willpower to stop herself breaking into hysterical laughter.

They had shocked the Papal Court.

Never, complained the Cardinals, had such behavior been seen during a solemn service. The woman from Naples was clearly nothing more than a Court harlot. The glances she distributed confirmed the reputation which had preceded her.

Girolamo Savonarola declaimed long and loudly from the pulpit of San Marco in Florence that the Papal Court was a disgrace to the world, and the Pope’s women behaved with great impropriety and were the disgrace and scandal of the people.

The Cardinals tentatively approached the Holy Father.

“Your Holiness will have suffered great sadness,” said one. “The spectacle of those young women’s behavior during the Whitsuntide ceremonies horrified all who beheld it.”

“Is that so?” said Alexander. “I noticed many an eye glistened as it turned in their direction.”

“With disgust, Holiness.”

“I saw no disgust, but I did see some delight.”

The Cardinals looked grim. “Your Holiness will doubtless deal adequately with the offenders?”

“Oh come, come, what offense is there in the pranks of girls? Young girls are by nature high-spirited. I for one would not have them otherwise. And who among you was not a little bored by our worthy preacher?”

“Nevertheless, to bring the manners of Naples to Rome!”

The Pope nodded placatingly. He would speak to the girls.

He did. He put an arm about Sanchia and another about Lucrezia, and composed his features into an expression of mock reproach. He kissed them tenderly and smiled benignly at Loysella, Bernardina and Francesca who stood before him, their heads bowed—but not so low as to prevent their glancing upwards occasionally at the Holy Father.

“You have shocked the community,” he said, “and if you were not so beautiful, I should be forced to scold you, and so I am sure bore you as thoroughly as did your Spanish prelate.”

“But you understand, Most Holy Lord,” said Sanchia, looking at him from under her dark lashes with those bluest of blue eyes.

“I understand this,” said the Pope, giving her a passionate look. “It gives me the greatest pleasure in the world to see so much brightness and beauty at my Court; and should I as much as frown on you I should be the most ungrateful man on Earth.”

Whereupon they all laughed, and Sanchia said they would sing for him, for he was not only their Holy Father but their greatly beloved one.

So Sanchia sang to the accompaniment of Lucrezia’s lute, and the girls ranged themselves about him, Loysella, Bernardina, Francesca on stools at his feet, raising wondering and admiring eyes, while Sanchia and Lucrezia leaned against his knees.

Scold these lovely creatures! thought Alexander. Never! Their little pranks could only amuse such a benevolent father.

That night Sanchia danced with Cesare. His eyes held hers and she was conscious of that smoldering resentment against the world which had afflicted herself. She was of a different temperament, and it was because of this that she had been able to shrug aside the slights and enjoy her life. But there was a bond between them.

For all his demonstrations of affection the Pope had not assigned to her that position at the Papal Court for which she longed. She was merely the wife of Goffredo, himself suspected of having a father other than Alexander; it would have been different had she been the wife of Cesare.

But her sensuous nature made it possible for her to forget all else in the pursuit of sexual satisfaction. That satisfaction dominated her life. It was not so with Cesare. He craved carnal pleasures but he had other desires as insistent. His love of power was greater than his desire for women.

She, who had known so many men that she read them easily, was aware of this, and she determined now to make Cesare forget his ambitions in his pursuit of her. They were both experienced, and they would find great pleasure in surprising each other by their accomplishments. Each was aware of this as they danced; and each was asking: Why delay longer? Delay was something which neither of them would tolerate.

“You are all that I heard you were,” Sanchia told him.

“You are all that I hoped you would be,” he answered her.

“I wondered when you and I would be able to talk together. This is the first time it has happened, and all eyes are on us now.”

“They were right,” said Cesare, “when they said you were the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“They were right when they said there was something terrifying about you.”

“Do you find me terrifying?”

She laughed. “No man terrifies me.”

“Have they always been so kind?”

“Always,” she said. “From the time I was able to talk, men have been kind to me.”

“Are you not weary of my sex, since you know it so well?”

“Each man is different from all others. That is what I have found. Perhaps that is why I have always discovered them to be so fascinating. And none that I have ever known has been remotely like you, Cesare Borgia; you stand apart.”

“And you like this strangeness in me?”

“So much that I would know it so well that it ceases to be strangeness and is familiar to me.”

“What tales have you heard of me?”

“That you are a man who will never take no for an answer, that men fear your frown, and that when you beckon a woman she must obey, in fear if not in desire. I have heard that those who displease you meet ill fortune, that some have been discovered in alleys, suffocated or with knives in their bodies. I have heard that some have drunk wine at your table and have felt themselves to be merely intoxicated, only to learn that they are dying. These are the things which I have heard of you, Cesare Borgia. What have you heard of me?”

“That you practice witchcraft so that all men whom you desire fall under your spell, and that having once been your lover none can ever forget you.”

“And do you believe these tales of me?”

“And do you believe the tales of me?”

She looked into his eyes and the flame of desire in hers was matched by that in his.

“I do not know,” she said, “but I am determined to discover.”

“Nor do I know,” he answered; “and I think I am as eager to make my discoveries as you are.”

His hand tightened on hers.

“Sanchia,” he said, “this night?”

And she closed her eyes and nodded.

They were watched.

The Pope smiled affectionately. It was inevitable. How could it have been otherwise? Cesare and Sanchia! They were well matched, and from the moment Cesare had heard of her he had determined it should be so.

Now we shall have the tiresome scandalmongers whispering, mused Alexander, now we shall have the Cardinals raising shocked hands and voices; and Savonarola will be thundering from his pulpit of the vice which goes on at the Papal Court.

The Pope sighed, faintly envious of his son, laughing slyly to himself; he would prevail upon Cesare to give him a full account of the affair.

Goffredo watched delightedly. How handsome they looked dancing together. My wife and my brother. They are the two most distinguished people in the ballroom. All watch them. And they find each other delightful.

Cesare, great Cesare, will be grateful to me because I have brought him Sanchia. And Sanchia, she is clearly delighted to meet Cesare. All her lovers must seem so unworthy when she compares them with him!

Lucrezia watched.

So, she thought, Goffredo’s wife has now determined to take Cesare as her lover. She knows how to lure him, how to please him.

Lucrezia wanted to bury her face in her hands and sob; and fervently she wished that Sanchia had never come to Rome.

They lay together on Sanchia’s bed.

Sanchia was smiling, glancing sideways at her lover. It is true, she thought exultantly, he is as no other man. He has the virility of two men; he is skilled and yet eager to discover; he is ardent and yet aloof, passionate and yet cold. In all her experience she had never known a lover such as Cesare Borgia.

She turned to him and said languidly: “They should have married me to you … not to Goffredo.”

She saw the change creep into his face; the slack sensuality disappeared and in its place was sudden anger so intense that it shocked her even in her present mood of indolence.

He clenched his fists and she realized that he was fighting with himself to hold back his anger.

“My father,” he said, “saw fit to send me to the Church.”

“It is incomprehensible,” she answered soothingly, and she laid her hand on his arm to draw him to her, once more to court desire.

But he was not to be seduced from his anger.

“I have two brothers,” he said, “and yet I was the chosen one.”

“You will be Pope,” she told him; “and that need not prevent your enjoying adventures such as this, Cesare.”

“I wish to command the armies,” he said. “I wish to have sons … legitimate sons. I wish to cast aside my Cardinal’s robe. I loathe the thing and all connected with it.”

She sat up in bed, her long hair falling about her nakedness. Her blue eyes shone. She wanted now to turn him from his anger, to bring him back to making love. It was a challenge. Is his anger more important to him than I am? What sort of man is this to talk of his ambitions while he lies in bed with me?

She took his hands and smiled at him.

“I doubt not all that you desire will be yours, Cesare Borgia.”

“Are you a witch?” he asked.

She nodded slowly and laughed showing her red tongue.

“I am a witch, Cesare Borgia, and I promise you this … a soldier’s uniform, a wife and legitimate offspring.”

He was looking at her intently; at least she had focused his attention on herself, even if it was the possible power of prophecy, rather than her body, which attracted him.

Her eyes were wide. “One of the family must go into the Church,” she went on. “It should have been little Goffredo. Why should it not be Goffredo?”

He knelt on the bed beside her; he took her by the shoulders and looked into her wild blue eyes.

“Yes,” she said. “Here is the answer. There should be a divorce. Little Goffredo should wear the Cardinal’s robes and Sanchia and Cesare should be man and wife.”

“By the saints!” cried Cesare, “it is a good plan.”

Then he seized her and kissed her wildly.

She laughed. “I trust my lord likes me no less because I might one day be his bride. They say the gentlemen of Rome find the mistresses they discover for themselves more to their liking than the wives who are found for them.”

“Have done,” he said fiercely.

“First,” she cried, “you must declare that you wish to be my husband.…”

She fell back laughing, and they struggled for a while.

“Cesare,” she murmured blissfully, “you have the strength of ten men.”

Lucrezia begged audience of her father.

Alexander studied his daughter anxiously. She looked pale and unhappy.

“What is it, my dearest?” he asked.

She lowered her eyes. She hated lying to him, yet she could not bring herself to tell him the truth.

“I feel unwell, dearest Father,” she said. “There is plague in the air of Rome, and I think it affects me. I have suffered from a slight fever these last days and nights.”

His cool jeweled hands were on her forehead.

“My blessed one,” he murmured.

“I crave your pardon,” said Lucrezia, “because I am going to ask something which I know you will not be anxious to grant me. I feel I need a change of air, and I would go for a short while to Pesaro.”

There was silence.

Her husband would be there, thought the Pope; and he was becoming increasingly dissatisfied with his daughter’s marriage. But Lucrezia looked wan, and he longed to make her happy.

She let her eyes linger on the red velvet cushion on which she knelt.

She felt that she was a strangely bewildered girl, who did not understand herself. She hated Sanchia—Sanchia with her bright blue eyes, wild laughter and deep, deep knowledge.

Sanchia treated Lucrezia as a child, and Lucrezia knew that in worldly matters she would remain a child while her emotions were such as she did not understand. She only knew that she could not bear to see Sanchia and Cesare together; that she hated the complaisance of Goffredo, the giggling of those three women who served Sanchia.

Often she had thought of Pesaro during the last weeks, when she had gone to Sanchia’s apartments because she knew that Cesare would be there and that if she did not go she would miss seeing him that day.

Pesaro, that quiet little town with the hills which formed a semi-circle about it and the blue sea washing its shores, Pesaro, where she could live with her husband and behave as a normal wife. In Pesaro she had felt herself to be as other women, and that was how she wanted to be.

Her father’s fingers were caressing her hair; she heard his voice, very gentle and tender, as though he understood: “My dearest, if it is your wish that you should go to Pesaro, then to Pesaro shall you go.”

Alexander met his son in the Papal apartments.

“I have news for you, Cesare,” he said.

Alexander was uneasy, but the news had to be broken soon, and Cesare was deep in a love affair with Sanchia which was proving to be an absorbing one. Alexander had no doubt of that. Therefore with Cesare satisfied, this was a good moment to tell him that which he had long wished to tell and which could not much longer be kept a secret from him.

Cesare answered: “Yes, Most Holy Father?”

“Giovanni is coming home.”

Alexander quickly slipped his arm through that of his son; he did not want to see the blood rush into Cesare’s cheeks; he did not want to see the angry red in his eyes.

“Yes, yes,” said Alexander, walking toward the window and gently pulling Cesare with him. “I am growing old and I shall be a happy man to have all my family about me once more.”

Cesare was silent.

No need yet, thought Alexander, to tell Cesare that Giovanni was being brought home to conduct a campaign against the Orsini who must be punished for going over to the French without a fight during the invasion. No need to say, When Giovanni comes I shall make him commander of the Papal forces. Cesare would have to know … but later.

“When he returns,” said Alexander lightly, “we must recall little Lucrezia. I long for the day when I have every member of my beloved family sitting at my table, that I may feast my eyes upon them.”

Still Cesare did not answer. His fingers twitched as he pulled at his Cardinal’s robes. He did not see the piazza beyond the window; he was unaware of Alexander, standing beside him.

All he could think of was that Giovanni, the envied, the hated one, was coming home.