Madonna of the Seven Hills

SAN SISTO

The Pope and Cesare were annoyed by Sforza’s flight. Already the news was being whispered throughout Rome that he had fled because he feared the dagger or the poison cup which the Borgias were preparing for him.

“Let him not think to escape,” raged Cesare.

Alexander was serene.

“Calm yourself, my dear son,” he said. “The only matter which concerns us is his separation from your sister. He is suspicious of our feelings toward him. It would be dangerous now to go the way we planned. There is only one course left open to us. I do not like it. As a Churchman I find it distasteful. The other would have been so much more convenient. I fear, Cesare, that we are left with divorce.”

“Well then, let us set about procuring it as soon as possible. I have promised Lucrezia her freedom and I intend her to have it.”

“Then let us study this matter of divorce. There are two alternatives, as I see it. First we could declare that the marriage was invalid because Lucrezia had never been released from a former entanglement with Gasparo di Procida.”

“I fear, Father, that that would be difficult to prove. Lucrezia was released from that betrothal, and there would be many to point to the proof of this. We should have Ludovico and Ascanio coming to their kinsman’s aid if we put forward such a reason.”

“You are right there, my son. That leaves us the other alternative. We will ask for a divorce on the grounds that the marriage has never been consummated.”

“But this is not so.”

“My dear son, who shall say that it has been consummated? Is there a child to confirm it?”

“It is a barren marriage, Father, but consummation has surely taken place.”

“Who shall swear to this?”

“Sforza. He will not wish his impotence to be proclaimed to the world.”

“But Lucrezia will say what we wish her to.”

“Sforza will protest, he will protest vigorously.”

“We will protest with equal vigor.”

“It is the answer. Truly, Father, you have genius.”

“Thank you, my son. Are you beginning to realize that I know how to manage my family’s affairs and do what brings my children the most good?”

“You have done much for Giovanni,” said Cesare with a hint of sullenness; “and now I see that you will do what is best for Lucrezia.”

Alexander patted his son’s shoulder affectionately. “Send for the sweet creature,” he said. “Let us tell her of the joy we are preparing for her.”

Lucrezia came to them. She was full of fears but, because she was growing up and learning the art of dissimulation which they practiced so expertly, she managed to hide the state of her mind from their searching eyes.

“My dearest,” said the Pope embracing her, “Cesare and I could not resist the pleasure of bringing you here. We have great news for you. You are to be freed from Sforza.”

“In what way, Father?”

“There will be a divorce. We do not like divorce, but there are times when it is necessary. So we shall use it to free you from Sforza.”

A feeling of relief swept over her. So they had abandoned their plans to murder him, and she had saved him.

The men noticed this relief and they smiled at one another. Their dear Lucrezia would be very grateful to them.

“Unfortunately,” declared the Pope, “the Church is opposed to divorce, and my Cardinals will demand a very good reason if we are to grant it.”

“It will be a simple matter,” added Cesare, “as the marriage has not been consummated.”

Lucrezia said quickly: “But it has been consummated.”

“No, my child,” contradicted the Pope, “it has not.”

“Father, we have shared the same bed on countless occasions.”

“Sharing a bed is not necessarily tantamount to consummation. My dear sweet innocent child, there is much you do not know. The marriage has not been consummated.”

“But Father, I swear it has.”

The Pope looked uneasily about him.

“All is well,” whispered Cesare. “No one would dare remain within hearing when I have given orders that they should not.”

“My child,” went on the Pope, “consummation is not what you think.”

“I know full well,” persisted Lucrezia, “that my marriage has been consummated.”

The Pope patted her cheek. “They may insist,” he said to Cesare, “on an examination of the child. They are full of doubts and suspicions.”

“Father, I must assure you that I …”

“Have no fear, my child,” whispered the Pope. “Such examinations have taken place before. It is so easy. The virgin, veiled on account of modesty. You understand. You yourself need not submit. We shall find a suitable virgin, and all will be well. All you would have to do would be to swear before the jurists and Cardinals of a commission.”

“Father, I could not so swear.”

The Pope smiled. “You fret too much, my child. There are times when it is necessary for us to diverge from the truth, if not for the sake of ourselves, for the happiness of others.”

She was aghast. She looked from one to the other of these two men whom she loved beyond all others in the world. She knew that whatever the future held she must continue to love them, that they must mean more to her than anyone else, that she was bound to them in more ways than she understood; she belonged to them, and they to her; she was bound to them by bonds of affection and a family feeling which was stronger than any other she had known; and she knew them to be dissemblers, treacherous liars and murderers.

She could not endure any more. She said: “Father, I pray you give me leave to retire. I would consider this matter.”

They kissed her tenderly, brother and father; and she left them, talking together of their plans to overcome any opposition.

As to Lucrezia, they did not expect any trouble from her.

She would not sign the monstrous document. It was a lie, a blatant lie.

Her father and Cesare pleaded with her. She must throw aside her scruples; she must remember what was at stake. Her brother Giovanni joined his pleas to those of Cesare and Alexander. It was degrading, he declared, that Lucrezia Borgia should remain married to such a man as Giovanni Sforza. Certainly her family wished to bring about her release. She was foolish to hesitate. What was the mere signing of a document?

“But it is a lie … a lie,” cried Lucrezia.

The Pope was gentle in his explanations, but astonished, he said, that his little daughter—the best loved of all his children—should so grieve her father.

“It is not the lie, so much, Father,” she tried to explain, “but the hurt it will give to my husband. He will be branded as impotent, and you know what humiliation that will cause him.”

“You must not worry so much on account of others, my child. He will be free to marry again and prove himself.”

“But who will wish to marry a man who, it is declared, cannot give children?”

“This is a little foolish, my child. Sign the document. It is so simple. Your name here … and in a short time all will be well.”

But again and again she refused.

Meanwhile Giovanni Sforza, enraged at the terms on which the Pope intended to procure a divorce, protested loudly and vigorously.

It was a lie to say that the marriage had not been consummated, he declared. It had been consummated a thousandfold.

He decided that there was only one place to which he could go for help. He would ride with all speed to Milan and seek the aid of his Sforza cousins. They had not shown themselves very eager to help in the past, but surely a family must stand together when one of its members was so insulted.

Having his own worries Ludovico was not very pleased to see his cousin. It might be that the French would return to Italy, and if they did Milan would be one of their first targets. If such circumstances arose, Ludovico would need the help of Alexander; and for what could he hope if he opposed the Pope in this matter? Ludovico obviously could offer little help to poor Giovanni Sforza.

“My dear cousin,” said Ludovico, “why do you not agree to the divorce? It would be quickly over and there would be an end to the matter.”

“Do you not understand this monstrous suggestion?”

“I see that the Pope will allow you to retain Lucrezia’s dowry if you agree. He also says you shall keep his goodwill.”

“Dowry! Goodwill! I am to retain these if I allow him to bruit it abroad that I am impotent!”

“It was a handsome dowry, and Papal goodwill is not to be despised.”

“Cousin, I ask you this: Had such a slur been thrown on your virility, how would you act?”

Ludovico was thoughtful for a few seconds, then he said: “Well, Giovanni, my cousin, there is a way in which you could prove the Borgia’s allegations to be wrong.”

“How so?” asked Giovanni eagerly.

“Prove it without doubt in the presence of our ambassador and the Papal Legate. Lucrezia could come to the castle of Nepi, and there you could show us publicly that you are capable of being a good husband.”

Giovanni shrank from his cousin in horror at the suggestion.

“But my dear cousin,” said Ludovico mildly, “it has been done before. And if Lucrezia refuses to come, why then I could arrange for several courtesans to be in attendance. You could take your choice, and I can assure you that our Milanese women are as desirable as any they have in Rome.”

“It would be quite impossible.”

“I have made the suggestion,” said Ludovico, shrugging his shoulders. “If you refuse to consider it, then people will draw their own conclusions.”

“I refuse to make a public spectacle of myself.”

“It seems to me the only way to counter this charge.”

“In the presence of the Milanese ambassador and the Papal Legate!” cried the outraged Giovanni. “And who is the Papal Legate? Another Giovanni Borgia, a nephew of His Holiness. Why, I doubt not that, whatever I did in his presence, he would swear I was impotent. He is another example of the incessant nepotism of the Pope! And the Milanese ambassador! Doubtless he would be bribed to speak against me, or threatened if he refused.”

Ludovico looked at his relative sadly, but there was no other advice he could offer. Giovanni Sforza was an unlucky man; he had aroused the contempt and dislike of the Borgias. He was also a foolish man; because the Borgias wished to be rid of him, and he was making it difficult for them.

Lucrezia knew that she must sign. She could not hold out against them any longer. Each day they visited her or she was summoned to the Pope’s presence. They all assured her that she must sign. There was her father, benevolent still but giving the faintest hints of losing patience; Cesare, growing angry with her now and then as he had never been before; Giovanni, telling her she was a stupid little girl who did not know what was good for her.

She did not know where her husband was. At first she had considered leaving Rome by stealth and fleeing to Pesaro, but when she had heard of the cruel things which Giovanni had said about her she no longer wanted to do that; for Giovanni Sforza, humiliated and angry, had declared that the Pope was eager for a divorce because he wanted his daughter to live in his immediate circle that he might take the place of her husband.

This was the first time that Lucrezia had heard this evil rumor concerning herself, and she shrank from the man who could spread it.

She had never felt so much alone as she did at that time. She longed to have someone like Giulia to confide in, but she never saw Giulia now; Sanchia was too immersed in her own affairs and the battle between Cesare and Giovanni for her favors which she was engendering.

And so there came the day when she signed the document which they had prepared for her, in which she declared that, owing to her husband’s impotence, she was still virgo intacta.

There was laughter in Rome.

A member of the most notorious family in Europe had declared her innocence. It was the best joke that had been heard in the streets for many years.

Even the servants, amongst themselves, could not refrain from sly titters. They had witnessed the passionate rivalry of the brothers for Lucrezia’s affection; they had seen her embraced by the Pope. And there were many who could swear that Giovanni Sforza and Lucrezia had lived as husband and wife.

They did not do so, of course. They had no wish to be taken to some dark dungeon and return minus their tongues. They did not care to risk being set upon one dark night, tied in sacks and thrown into the river. They had no wish to drink of a certain wine and so step into eternity.

But at that time one of the most unhappy people in Rome was Lucrezia. She was filled with shame for what she had done, and she felt that she could no longer endure the daily routine of her life.

She thought longingly of those days of her childhood when she had lived so happily with the nuns of San Sisto, and everything within the convent walls had seemed to offer peace; and, very soon after she had signed that document, she left her palace for the convent of San Sisto.

There she begged to be taken to the Prioress and, when Sister Girolama Pichi came to her, she fell on her knees and cried: “Oh, Sister Girolama, I pray you give me refuge within these quiet walls, for I am sorely oppressed and need the comfort this place has to offer me.”

Sister Girolama, recognizing the Pope’s daughter, embraced her warmly and told her that the convent of San Sisto was her home for as long as she wished it to be so.

Lucrezia asked that she might see her old friends, Sister Cherubina and Sister Speranza, who so long ago, it seemed, had undertaken her religious teaching. The Prioress sent for them and, when Lucrezia saw them, she wept afresh and Sister Girolama told them to take Lucrezia to a cell where she might pray, and that they might stay with her as long as she needed their comfort.

When he discovered that Lucrezia had gone to the convent, Cesare was angry, but the Pope soothed him and begged him not to let any know how concerned they were at this unexpected move.

“If any should know that she had run away from us they would ask the reason,” said the Pope, “and there would be many to question whether she had willingly put her name to our document.”

“They will know soon enough that she has fled to the nuns to seek refuge from us.”

“That must not be. This day I will send men-at-arms to bring her back to us.”

“And if she will not come?”

“Lucrezia will obey my wishes.” The Pope smiled grimly. “Moreover the nuns of San Sisto will not wish to arouse Papal displeasure.”

The men-at-arms were dispatched. Lucrezia was with four of the nuns when she heard them at the gates.

She turned startled eyes to her companions and wished she were one of them, serene and far removed from all trouble. Oh, she thought, what would I not give to change places with Serafina or Cherubina, with Paulina or Speranza?

The Prioress came to her and said: “There are men of the Papal entourage below. They have come to take you back, Madonna Lucrezia.”

“Holy Mother,” said Lucrezia, falling on her knees and burying her face in the voluminous black habit, “I beg you do not let them take me away.”

“My daughter, is it your wish that you should renounce all worldly things and stay here with us all the days of your life?”

Lucrezia’s lovely eyes were full of bewilderment. “They will not permit it, Holy Mother,” she said; “but let me stay awhile. I pray you let me stay. I am afraid of so much outside. Here I find solitude and I can pray as I cannot in my palace. Here in my cell I am alone with God. That is how I feel, and I believe that if you will but give me refuge for a little longer I shall know whether I must give up all outside these walls and become one of you. Holy Mother, I implore you, give me that refuge.”

“We would deny it to none,” said Girolama.

One of the nuns came hurrying to them to report that men were at the gates demanding to see the Prioress. “They are soldiers, Holy Mother. They are heavily armed and look fierce.”

“They have come for me,” said Lucrezia. “Holy Mother, do not let them take me.”

The Prioress went boldly to the gates and faced the soldiers, who told her they were in a hurry, and had come, on the orders of His Holiness, to take Madonna Lucrezia with them.

“She has sought refuge here,” said the Prioress.

“Now listen, Holy Mother, this is an order from the Pope.”

“I regret it. But it is a rule of this house that none who asks for refuge shall be denied it.”

“This is no ordinary visitor. Would you be so foolish as to offend His Holiness? The Borgia Pope and his sons do not love those who oppose them.”

The soldiers meant to be kind; they were warning the Prioress that if she were a wise woman she would heed the Pope’s request. But if Girolama Pichi was not a wise woman she was a brave one.

“You cannot enter my house,” she said. “If you do, you commit an act of profanity.”

The soldiers lowered their eyes; they had no wish to desecrate a holy convent, but at the same time they had their orders.

Girolama faced them unflinching. “Go back to His Holiness,” she said. “Tell him that as long as his daughter craves refuge, I shall give it, even though His Holiness commands me to release her.”

The men-at-arms turned away, abashed by the courage of the woman.

In the Vatican, the Pope and his two sons chafed in quiet anger.

They knew that in the streets it was whispered that Madonna Lucrezia had entered a nunnery, and that the reason was that her family was trying to force her to do something which was against her will.

Alexander came to one of his quick and brilliant decisions.

“We will leave your sister in her convent,” he said, “and make no more attempts to bring her out. They cause gossip and scandal, and until the divorce is completed we wish to avoid that. We will let it be known that Madonna Lucrezia has been sent to San Sisto by ourselves, our wish being that she should live in quiet retirement until she is free of Giovanni Sforza.”

So Lucrezia was left in peace; but meanwhile the Pope and her brothers redoubled their efforts to obtain her divorce.

Life for Lucrezia was now regulated by the bells of San Sisto, and she was happy in the convent where she was treated as a very special guest.

No one brought her news so she did not know that Romans continued to mock at what they called the farce of the divorce. She had never been fully aware of the scandals which had circulated about herself and her family, and she had no notion that verses and epigrams were now being written on the walls.

Alexander went serenely about his daily life, ignoring the insinuations. His one aim was to bring about the divorce as quickly as possible.

He was in constant communication with the convent, but he made no attempt to persuade his daughter to leave her sanctuary. He allowed the rumor, that she intended to take the veil, to persist, realizing that the image of a saintly Lucrezia was the best answer to all the foul things which were being said of her.

He selected a member of his household to take letters to his daughter and, as he was planning that after the divorce he would send her to Spain for a while in the company of her brother the Duke of Gandia, he chose as messenger a young Spaniard who was his favorite chamberlain.

Pedro Caldes was young and handsome and eager to serve the Pope. His Spanish nationality was on his side as Alexander was particularly gracious to Spaniards; his charm of manner was a delight to the Pope, who was anxious that Lucrezia should not become too enamoured of the nuns and their way of life.

“My son,” said Alexander to his handsome chamberlain, “you will take this letter to my daughter and deliver it to her personally. Now that the Prioress knows that my daughter is in the Convent of San Sisto with my consent, you will be admitted to my daughter’s presence.” Alexander smiled charmingly. “You are to be not merely a messenger; I would have you know that. You will talk to my daughter of the glories of your native land. I want you to inspire within her a desire to visit Spain.”

“I will do all in my power, Most Holy Lord.”

“I know you will. Discover whether she is leading the life of a nun. I do not wish my little daughter to live so rigorously. Ask her if she would like me to send a companion to her—some charming girl of her own age. Assure her of my constant love and tell her that she is always in my thoughts. Now go, and when you return come and tell me how you found her.”

So Pedro set out for the convent determined to make a success of his mission. He was delighted with it; he had often seen Madonna Lucrezia and had greatly admired her. She was the most beautiful of all the women, he thought, preferring her serene youthfulness to the more bold beauty of Madonna Giulia; as for the Princess of Squillace she was not to his taste at all, being nothing more than a brazen courtesan. It seemed to Pedro that, compared with such women, Lucrezia was wonderful.

He stood before the convent, at the foot of the Aventine, and looked up at the building. He felt then that this was a fateful moment in his life; he was to have a chance to win the friendship of Lucrezia, a chance which he had never thought would be his.

He was allowed to enter, and the nuns who passed him in the corridors hurried along with downcast eyes, scarcely looking at the stranger. He was conducted to a small room. How quiet it was!

He looked about him at the stone floor and the bare walls on which there was nothing but a crucifix. The furniture in the room consisted of a rough bench and a few stools. Outside the brilliant sun seemed far away for it was so cool behind those thick walls.

And suddenly Lucrezia came and stood before him. She was dressed in a long black robe, such as the nuns wore, but there was no covering on her head, and her golden hair streamed down her back. It was symbolic, thought Pedro. The display of all that golden beauty meant that she had not yet decided to take the veil. He would know when she had, because then he would not be allowed to see her golden hair.

He bowed; she held out her hand and he kissed it.

“I come from the Holy Father,” he said.

“You have brought letters?”

“Yes, Madonna. And I hope to take a reply back to him.”

“You are welcome.” He noticed how eagerly she took the letters.

He hesitated, then said: “Madonna, it is the wish of His Holiness that I should linger awhile and talk with you, that you might ask me for news of the Vatican.”

“That is kind of him,” said Lucrezia with a dazzling smile. “I pray you sit down. I would offer you refreshment, but …”

He lifted a hand. “I want none, Madonna. And I could not sit in your presence unless you sat first.”

She laughed and sat down facing him. She had laid the letters on the bench, but kept her hands on them as though her fingers were longing to open them.

“Tell me your name,” she said.

“It is Pedro Caldes.”

“I have seen you often. You are one of my father’s chamberlains, and you come from Spain.”

“I am honored to have been noticed by the lady Lucrezia.”

“I notice those who serve my father well.”

The young man flushed with pleasure.

“It is a double delight for me to be here,” he said, “for not only has His Holiness entrusted me with the mission, but it is the pleasantest I ever undertook.”

Lucrezia laughed suddenly. “It pleases me to hear a compliment again.”

“There are rumors which have greatly disturbed your eminent father, Madonna. Some are hinting that it is your intention to remain here for the rest of your life.” She was silent, and there was alarm in Pedro’s eyes as he went on: “Madonna Lucrezia, that would be wrong … wrong!”

He paused, waiting to be dismissed for his insolence, but there was nothing arrogant about Lucrezia. She merely smiled and said: “So you think it would be wrong. Tell me why?”

“Because,” he said, “you are too beautiful.”

She laughed with pleasure. “There are some beautiful nuns.”

“But you should be gracing your father’s Court. You should not hide your beauty in a convent.”

“Did my father tell you to say that?”

“No, but he would be deeply wounded if you made such a decision.”

“It is pleasant to talk to someone who cares what I do. You see, I came here for refuge and I found it. I wanted to shut myself away from … so many things. I do not regret coming here to dear Sister Girolama.”

“It was a pleasant refuge, Madonna, but a temporary one. May I tell His Holiness that you are looking forward to the day when you will be reunited with your family?”

“No, I do not think you may. I am as yet undecided. There are times when the peace of this place overwhelms me, and I think how wonderful it is to rise early in the morning, and to wait for the bells to tell me what to do. Life here is simple and I sometimes long to live the simple life.”

“Forgive me, Madonna, but you would deny your destiny were you to stay here.”

She said: “Talk of other things, not of me. I am weary of my problems. How fares my father?”

“He is lonely because you are not with him.”

“I miss him too. I long for his letters.” She glanced at them.

“Would you wish me to leave you that you might read them in peace?”

She hesitated. “No,” she said. “I will keep them. They will be something to look forward to when you have left. How are my brothers?”

Again Pedro hesitated. “All is much as it was when you left them.”

She nodded sadly, thinking of them and their passion for Sanchia of which they were making another issue on which to build their hatred.

“Will you return to Spain one day?”

“I hope so, Madonna.”

“You are homesick?”

“As all must be who belong to Spain and leave her.”

“I fancy I should feel the same if I were forced to leave Italy.”

“You would love my country, Madonna.”

“Tell me of it.”

“Of what shall I tell you—of Toledo which is set on a horse’s shoe of granite, of the Tagus and the mighty mountains? Of Seville where the roses bloom all through the winter, of the lovely olive groves, of the wine they make there? It is said, Madonna, that those whom God loves live in Seville. I should like to show you the Moorish palaces, the narrow streets; and never did oranges and palms grow so lush as they do in Seville.”

“You are a poet, I believe.”

“I am inspired.”

“By your beautiful country?”

“No, Madonna. By you.”

Lucrezia was smiling. It was useless to pretend that she did not enjoy the young man’s company, that she did not feel revived by this breath of the outside world; she felt as though she had slept long and deep when she needed sleep, but now the sounds of life were stirring about her and she wanted to wake.

“I long to see your country.”

“His Holiness hinted that when the Duke of Gandia returns to Spain he might take you with him.”

To Spain! To escape the gossip, the shame of divorce! It seemed a pleasant prospect.

“I should enjoy it … for a while.”

“It would be for a while, Madonna. His Holiness would never allow you to stray long from his side.”

“I know it.”

“And so solicitous is he for your happiness that he is concerned to think of you here. He asks: ‘Is your bed hard? Do you find the food tasteless? Do the convent rules irk you?’ And he wonders who combs your hair and washes it for you. He says he would like to send you a companion, someone whom he would choose for you. She would be young, a friend as well as a servant. He asks me to bring him word as to whether you would like him to do this.”

Lucrezia hesitated. Then she said: “I pray you convey my deep devotion to my father. Tell him that the love he bears me is no more than that I bear him. Tell him that I pray each night and morning that I may be worthy of his regard. And tell him too that I am happy here, but that I have enjoyed your visit and look forward to receiving one whom he will send me to be my servant and companion.”

“And now, Madonna, you would wish me to retire and leave you with your letters?”

“How kind you are,” she said. “How thoughtful!”

She extended her hand and he kissed it.

His lips lingered on her hand and she was pleased that this should be so. The nuns were her good friends, but Lucrezia bloomed under admiration.

She was still safe in her refuge; but she had enjoyed that breath of air from the outside world.

The Pope sent for the girl whom he had chosen to be Lucrezia’s companion in the Convent of San Sisto.

She was charming, very pretty and small, with brilliant dark eyes and a dainty figure. Alexander had thought her charming when he first saw her. He still thought so, but at the moment he admired red hair such as that of his favorite mistress.

He held out his arms as the girl approached. “Pantisilea,” he said, “my dear child, I have a mission for you.”

Pantisilea lowered those wonderful eyes and waited. She was afraid that the Holy Father was going to send her away. She had been dreading this. She had known that their relationship could not continue indefinitely; the Pope’s love affairs were fleeting, and even that with Giulia Farnese had not lasted forever.

Pantisilea had had dreams. Who in her place would not? She had pictured herself as a lady of substance like Vannozza Catanei or Giulia Farnese.

Now she was beginning to understand that she had been lightly selected to charm a weary hour or two.

“You are trembling, my child,” said Alexander kindly.

“It is in terror, Holy Lord, of being sent away from you.”

Alexander smiled kindly. He was always kind to women. He fondled the dark curls absentmindedly; he was thinking of his red-headed mistress.

“You shall not go far from us, my dear; and, when you hear for what mission I have selected you, you will rejoice, knowing that I could give this task—not only to one I loved, but one whom I respected and trusted.”

“Yes, Holiness.”

“You are going to the Convent of San Sisto, there to attend my daughter Lucrezia.”

Pantisilea’s relief was obvious. The lady Lucrezia was a gentle mistress, and all those who served her considered themselves fortunate to do so.

“There,” said the Pope. “You are delighted, for you are aware of the honor I do you.”

“Yes, Holiness.”

“You must be prepared to leave this day. My daughter is lonely, and I want you to comfort her, and be her friend.” He pinched the girl’s soft cheek tenderly. “And at the same time, my sweet child, you will constantly let her know how grieved her father is because he does not have her with him. You will wash her hair for her and take some of her fine clothes and jewels with you. You will persuade her to wear them. Pantisilea, my dear, it is said that my daughter wishes to become a nun. I know this to be but talk; but my daughter is young and impressionable. It is your task to remind her of all the joys outside a convent walls. Girls’ chatter, gossip, fine clothes! My Lucrezia loved them all. See, my child, that she does not lose that love. The sooner you bring her from that place, the greater will be your reward.”

“Holy Father, my ambition is to serve you.”

“You are a good child. You are beautiful too.”

The Pope took her into his arms in a farewell embrace which was one of mingled approval and passion.

Lucrezia was ready to be very fond of Pantisilea. She was excited to have someone who laughed readily, and enjoyed gossiping. Serafina and the others were too sober, believing that there was something sinful in laughter.

Pantisilea opened trunks and showed Lucrezia the dresses she had brought with her.

“These become you far more than that black habit, Madonna.”

“I have no heart for them in this quiet place,” Lucrezia explained. “They would look incongruous here, Pantisilea.”

Pantisilea appeared bitterly disappointed. “And your hair, Madonna!” she persisted. “It is not as golden as it used to be.”

Lucrezia looked slightly alarmed. It was sinful to care for worldly matters such as the adornment of her person, the sisters had told her; and she had tried not to regret that her hair was left unwashed.

She explained to Pantisilea that the sisters would not have approved of her washing her hair as often as had been her custom. They would accuse her of vanity.

“Madonna,” said Pantisilea slyly, “they have not golden hair like yours. I pray you let me wash it, only to remind you how it will shine.”

What harm was there in washing her hair? She allowed Pantisilea to do so.

When it was dry, Pantisilea laughed with pleasure, took strands of it in her hands and cried: “But look, Madonna, it is pure gold again. It is the color of the gold in your green and gold brocade gown. Madonna, I have the dress here. Put it on.”

Lucrezia smiled at the girl. “To please you, little Pantisilea.”

So the green and gold dress was put on and, as Lucrezia stood with her golden hair about her shoulders, one of the nuns came to tell her that Pedro Caldes had arrived at the convent with letters from the Pope.

Lucrezia received him in the cold bare room.

He stared at her, and she watched the slow flush creep up from his neck to the roots of his hair. He could not speak, but could only stare at her.

She said: “Why, Pedro Caldes, is aught wrong?”

He stammered: “Madonna, it would seem that I am in the presence of a goddess.”

It was so pleasant to be wearing beautiful clothes again, and to sense the admiration of this young man. He was personable and she had been too long without admiration.

After that she did not wear her black habit again and her hair was always gleaming like gold.

She could never be sure when Pedro would call, bringing messages from her family; and she was determined that this young man, who so admired her, should always see her at her best.

Pantisilea was a merry companion, and Lucrezia wondered how she had endured the long days before the coming of this bright girl.

They would sit together in rooms allotted to them and work at a piece of embroidery, although Pantisilea liked better to sing to the accompaniment of Lucrezia’s lute. Pantisilea had brought the lute with her; she had also had some tapestry sent so that the bare walls were hung with this and it no longer seemed like a cell. She continually talked of the outside world. She was amusing and a little indiscreet; and perhaps, thought Lucrezia, that was what made her company so exciting; she felt now that she would go to sleep in that of the kindly but somber sisters.

Pantisilea, delightedly shocked, gossiped about Cesare’s anger against his brother and how Sanchia was alternately the mistress of each. There had never been anyone at the Papal Court like Sanchia, she declared. The brothers visited her openly, and the whole of Rome knew that they were her lovers. And there was little Goffredo too, delighted that his wife should be causing so much controversy, and helping his brother Cesare prevail over his brother Giovanni.

She had a story to tell of a lovely girl from Ferrara who was betrothed.

“His lordship of Gandia set eyes on her and greatly coveted her,” said Pantisilea; “but her father was determined on her marriage, for it was a good one. She had a big dowry and that together with her beauty, was irresistible. But the Duke of Gandia was determined to make her his mistress. It is all very secret, Madonna; but now the marriage has been postponed and there are some who say that the masked companion who is seen often with the Duke of Gandia is this lady.”

“My brothers are alike in that what they want they are determined to have.”

“Indeed it is so, and there is much gossip throughout Rome concerning the Duke’s mysterious love affair.”

“And the masked one is this girl?”

“No one can be sure. All that is known is that in the company of the Duke of Gandia there is invariably a masked figure. They ride together—sometimes pillion. The clothes worn by the Duke’s companion are all-concealing, so that it is impossible to say whether it is man or woman.”

“How like Giovanni to attract attention to himself thus. And my brother Cesare? Has he a masked mistress?”

“No, my lady. The Lord Cardinal has not been seen except at the church ceremonies. There is talk that he no longer cares for Madonna Sanchia, and that because of this, harmony has been restored between the two brothers.”

“I trust it is so.”

“They have been seen, walking together, arms linked like true friends.”

“It does me good to hear it.”

“And, Madonna, what will you wear? The green velvet with the pink lace is becoming to your beauty.”

“I am well enough as I am.”

“Madonna, what if Pedro Caldes should come?”

“What if he should?”

“It would be wonderful for him to see you in the green velvet and pink lace.”

“Why so?”

Pantisilea laughed her merry laugh. “Madonna, Pedro Caldes loves you. It is there in his eyes for anyone to see—but perhaps not for anyone. Not for Sister Cherubino.” Pantisilea made a wry face that was a fair imitation of the good sister. “No, she would not recognize the signs. But I do. I know that Pedro Caldes is passionately but hopelessly in love with you, Madonna.”

“What nonsense you talk!” said Lucrezia.

He was in love with her.

She knew that Pantisilea was right. It was in every gesture, in the very tone of his voice. Poor Pedro Caldes! What hope was there for him?

But she looked forward to his visits, and was taking as much interest in her appearance as she ever had.

The merry serving-maid was an intrigante. Frivolous and sentimental, it seemed to her inevitable that Lucrezia should indulge in a love affair. Continually she talked of Pedro—of his handsome looks, of his courtly manners.

“Oh, what a tragedy if the Holy Father decided to employ another messenger!” she cried.

Lucrezia laughed at her. “I believe you are in love with this young man.”

“I should be, were it of any use,” declared Pantisilea. “But his love is for one and one only.”

Lucrezia found that she enjoyed these conversations. She could grow as excited as Pantisilea, talking of Pedro. There in their little room, which was becoming more and more like a small chamber of one of the palaces, they sat together gossiping and laughing. When Lucrezia heard the bells, when she looked out of her window and saw the nuns passing to the chapel, and when she heard their singing of Complines, sometimes she would start guiltily out of her reverie. Yet the sanctified atmosphere of the convent made the visits of Pedro seem more exciting.

One day when she went into the cold bare room to receive him, she noticed that he was quiet, and she asked him if anything had happened to sadden him.

“Madonna,” he said earnestly, “I am sad indeed, so sad that I fear I can never be happy again.”

“Something very tragic has happened to you, Pedro?”

“The most tragic thing that could happen to me.”

She was at his side, touching his sleeve with gentle and tender fingers. “You could tell me, Pedro. You know that I would do all in my power to help.”

He looked down at her hand resting on his sleeve, and suddenly he took that hand and covered it with kisses; then he fell on his knees and hid his face against her billowing skirts.

“Pedro,” she said softly. “Pedro, you must tell me of this tragic thing.”

“I can come here no more,” he said.

“Pedro! You are weary of these visits. You have asked my father to send another in your place.” There was reproach in her voice, and he sprang to his feet. She noticed the shine in his eyes and her heart leaped with exultation.

“Weary!” he cried. “These visits are all that I live for.”

“Then Pedro …”

He had turned away. “I cannot look at you, Madonna,” he murmured. “I dare not. I shall ask His Holiness to replace me. I dare not come again.”

“And your tragedy, Pedro?”

“Madonna, it is that I love you … the saints preserve me!”

“And it makes you sad? I am sorry, Pedro.”

He had turned to her, his eyes blazing. “How could it make me anything but sad? To see you as I do … to know that one day the order will come, and you will return to the Vatican; and when you are there I shall not dare to speak to you.”

“If I returned to my palace it would make no difference to our friendship, Pedro. I should still ask you to come and see me, to entertain me with your conversation and tales of your beautiful country.”

“Madonna, it is impossible. I crave leave to depart.”

“It is granted, Pedro,” she said. “But … I shall expect you to visit me still, because I should be so unhappy if any other came in your place.”

He fell on his knees and, taking her hands, covered them with kisses.

She smiled down at him, and she noticed with pleasure how the fine dark hair curled on his neck.

“Oh yes, Pedro,” she said. “I should be very unhappy if you ceased to visit me, I insist that you continue to do so. I command it.”

He rose to his feet.

“My lady is kind,” he murmured. Then he looked at her with a hunger in his eyes which enthralled her. “I … I dare stay no longer,” he said.

He left her, and when he had gone she marvelled that in this convent of San Sisto she had known some of the happiest hours of her life.

Cesare rode to his mother’s house to pay her one of his frequent visits. He was thoughtful, and those about him had noticed that of late there had been a certain brooding quietness in his demeanor.

He had ceased to court Sanchia; he had ceased to brood on his sister’s voluntary retreat to the convent; he had become quite friendly with his brother Giovanni.

When Vannozza saw her son approaching, she clapped her hands vigorously and several of her slaves came running to do her bidding.

“Wine, refreshment,” cried Vannozza. “I see my son, the Cardinal comes this way. Carlo,” she called to her husband, “come quickly and greet my lord Cardinal.”

Carlo came running to her side. Carlo was well satisfied with his lot, which had brought marriage with the Pope’s ex-mistress and mother of his children. Many privileges had come his way, and he was grateful for them. He showed his gratitude by his profound respect for the Pope and the Pope’s sons.

Cesare embraced his mother and his stepfather.

“Welcome, welcome, dearest son,” said Vannozza with tears of pride in her eyes. It never ceased to astonish her that these wonderful sons of hers should visit their comparatively humble mother. All her adoration shone in her eyes, and Cesare loved her for that adoration.

“My mother,” murmured Cesare.

Carlo declared: “It is a great day for us when my lord Cardinal honors our house.”

Cesare was gracious. He sat with his mother and his step-father, and as they drank from the silver goblets which had been hastily taken from the credenza, Vannozza was regretting that she had not been warned of her son’s coming and had not had time to hang the tapestries on the walls and bring out the majolica and pewter ornaments. They talked of Lucrezia and of the impending divorce.

“Your father will do what is best for you all,” said Vannozza. “Oh, my son, I would that I were not such a humble woman and could do more for you.”

Cesare laid his hand over hers and smiled at her; and when Cesare smiled his face was beautiful. It was real affection which he had for his mother; and Vannozza, because she knew how others feared him, valued that affection the more.

After they had refreshed themselves, Cesare asked that she would show him her flowers, of which she was justly proud, and they went into the gardens.

They wandered among her plants, Cesare’s arm about her waist; and since he was so affectionate, Vannozza found courage to tell him how pleased she was that he and his brother Giovanni seemed to be better friends.

“Oh, Mother, how senseless quarrels are! Giovanni and I are brothers. We should be friends.”

“They were merely brotherly quarrels,” soothed Vannozza. “Now you are growing older you realize the futility of them.”

“It is so, Mother. I want the whole of Rome to know that Giovanni and I are now friends. When you next give a supper party let it be an intimate one … for your sons only.”

Vannozza stood still, smiling delightedly. “I shall give the party at once,” she said. “For you and Giovanni. It is too hot in the city. It shall be an alfresco supper in my vineyards. What think you, Cesare, of that idea?”

“It is excellent. Make it soon, dearest Mother.”

“Say when you wish it to be, oh my beloved, and it shall be then.”

“Tomorrow is too soon. The day after that?”

“It shall be so.”

“Mother, you are my very good friend.”

“And should I not be, my best beloved son who has cherished and honored me at all times?”

She closed her eyes and remembered what Cesare had done to all those who, he had been able to discover, had taken part in the raiding of her house during the French invasion. He had been brutal and many had suffered, and Vannozza was a woman who did not care to see great suffering; but this showed the measure of Cesare’s love for her. “Nothing,” he had cried, “nothing … is too severe for those who sought to dishonor my mother by desecrating her house.”

“You will be glad to see Giovanni with me at your supper party,” said Cesare. “You love him too, remember. It is a pity Lucrezia will not be with us.”

“I should take great pleasure in seeing my daughter, and I agree that I shall be happy to have Giovanni with me. But, my son, of all my children there is one who delights me as none other could. It is you, my dearest.”

He kissed her hand with that extravagant show of love which the family displayed toward each other.

“I know you speak truth, dear Mother. I swear to you here and now that no harm shall ever come your way while there is power in this body to prevent it. I will inflict torture and death on any who dare whisper a word against you.”

“My dearest, do not be so vehement on my poor account. I need nothing to make me happy but to see you often. Bless me with your presence as frequently as is possible—although I know that you have your destiny, and I must not let my selfish love interfere with that—and I shall be the happiest woman on Earth.”

He held her against him, and then they continued their walk among the flowers, planning the supper party.

Cesare walked through the streets, his cloak concealing his fine clothes, his mask hiding his features, so that none would have guessed his identity. Reaching the Ponte district he sauntered into a narrow street, slipped into another and paused before a house. Looking about him to make sure that he was not followed, he walked through the open door shutting it behind him, and descending the stone steps to a room with wooden panelling and flagstone floor, clapped his hands as he did so.

A servant appeared, and when Cesare removed his mask the man bowed low.

“Your mistress is here?” asked Cesare.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Conduct me to her at once.”

He was led to a room which was typical of many such rooms, furnished with a canopied bed, wooden chairs with carved backs, and the statue of the Madonna with the lamp burning before it.

A very beautiful young girl, tall and slender, who had risen at Cesare’s entry, fell on her knees before him.

“My lord,” she murmured.

“Rise,” said Cesare impatiently. “My brother is not here?”

“No, my lord. He comes two hours from now.”

Cesare nodded.

“The time has come for you to fulfill your duty,” he said.

“Yes, my lord?”

Cesare looked at her shrewdly. “You are beloved by my brother. What are your feelings for him?”

“I serve one master,” she said.

His fingers closed about her ear. It was a gesture both tender and threatening. “Remember it,” he said. “I reward those from whom I demand service, and the reward depends on the nature of their service.”

The girl shivered, but she repeated firmly: “I serve one master.”

“That is well,” said Cesare. “I will tell you quickly what is required of you. You will present yourself at the vineyard of Vannozza Catanei at midnight on a date which I shall give you. You will be cloaked and masked as usual when you ride with my brother. You will leap on to his horse and ride away with him.”

“Is that all, my lord?”

Cesare nodded. “Except this one thing. You will insist on taking him to an inn which you have discovered, and where you will tell him you have planned to stay until morning.”

“And this inn?”

“I will give you its name. It is in the Jewish quarter.”

“We are to ride there after midnight!”

“You have nothing to fear if you obey my instructions.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her lingeringly. “If you do not, my beautiful one …” He laughed. “But you will remember, will you not, that you serve one master.”

Vannozza, still a very beautiful woman, greeted her guests in her vineyard on the summit of the Esquiline. The table was heavily laden with good food, and the wine was of the best. Carlo Canale was beside her to do honor to the distinguished guests.

“You think we shall be merry enough with only your sons’ cousin, the Cardinal of Monreale, and a few other relations?”

“When my sons come to me they like to escape from all the pomp which usually surrounds their daily life.”

Canale kept sipping the wine to assure himself that it was of the very best; Vannozza nervously surveyed her table and shouted continually to the slaves; but when the guests arrived she gave all her attention to them.

“My dearest sons,” she murmured, embracing them; but the embrace she gave Cesare was longer than that she had for Giovanni, and Cesare would notice this.

The warm summer night was enchanting; they could look down on the city, while the cool sweet air and the scent of flowers from the meadows about the Colosseum wafted up to them.

A perfect night, thought Vannozza.

Conversation about the table was merry. Cesare teased Giovanni in the pleasantest way.

“Why, brother,” he cried, “you expose yourself to danger. I have heard that you ride among desperadoes with none but a groom to protect you—you and your masked friend.”

“None dare harm my father’s son,” said Giovanni lightly.

“Nay, but you should take care.”

“I have taken most things in my life,” laughed Giovanni, “but rarely that.”

“Yes, my son,” said Vannozza, “I beg of you take greater care. Do not go to those parts of the city where danger lurks.”

“Mother, I am a baby no longer.”

“I have heard,” said Cesare, “that he was seen riding in the Jewish quarter late one night. That is foolish of him.”

“Foolish indeed, my son,” scolded Vannozza.

Giovanni laughed and turned to Canale. “More wine, Father. ’Tis good, this wine of yours.”

Canale, delighted, filled his stepson’s goblet, and the conversation turned to other matters.

It was past midnight, and they were preparing to leave when Cesare said: “Why look, who is that lurking among the trees?”

The company turned and looking saw that cowering in a clump of bushes was a slender masked figure.

“It would appear that your friend has called for you,” said Cesare.

“It would appear so,” answered Giovanni, and he seemed to be well pleased.

“Must your friend come even to our mother’s house?” asked Cesare.

“Perhaps,” laughed Giovanni.

“This friend is very eager for your company,” said Cesare. “Come, we will not delay you. Farewell, dear Mother. It has been a night I shall long remember.”

Vannozza embraced her sons and watched them mount their horses. When Giovanni was in his saddle, the masked creature sprang up behind him in order to ride pillion.

Cesare was laughing and calling to the few attendants, whom he had brought with him, to follow him; and he broke into a song, in which the others all joined, as they rode down the hillside and into the city.

When they reached the Ponte district Giovanni drew up and told his brother that he would be leaving him there. He called to one of his grooms: “Hi, fellow, you come with me. The rest of you … go to your beds.”

“Whither are you bound, brother?” asked Cesare. “You are surely not going into the Jewish quarter?”

“My destination,” retorted Giovanni arrogantly, “is my own concern.”

Cesare lifted his shoulders with an indifference which was unusual.

“Come,” he said to his followers and to those of Giovanni’s servants who had not been commanded to accompany him, “home to the Borgo.”

So they left Giovanni, who, with the masked figure riding behind him, and the groom a little distance in the rear, went on into the narrow streets of the Jewish quarter.

That was the last time Cesare saw Giovanni alive.

The next day, Alexander, waiting to receive his beloved son, was disappointed by his continued absence. All that day he waited, but still Giovanni did not put in an appearance.

He sent to Giovanni’s household. No one had seen him. He had not visited Sanchia.

Alexander chuckled. “I doubt not that he has spent the night in the house of some woman, and he fears to compromise her by leaving in daylight.”

“Then he is showing himself unusually discreet,” said Cesare grimly.

But that day brought no news of Giovanni, and toward the end of it, a messenger hurried to the Pope to tell him that the young Duke’s groom, who had been seen to accompany him, was found stabbed to death in the Piazza degli Ebrei.

All Alexander’s serenity vanished. He was frantic with anguish.

“Send out search parties,” he cried. “Examine every street … every house … I shall not rest until I hold my son in my arms.”

When the search had gone on for several days and there was no news of Giovanni, the Pope grew desperate, but he would not believe any harm had come to his son.

“It is a prank of his, Cesare,” he kept repeating. “You will see, he will come bounding in on us, laughing at us because he so duped us. Depend upon it.”

“It is a prank of his,” agreed Cesare.

Then there was brought before the Pope a Dalmatian boatman who said that he had something to say, and he would say it only to the Holy Father because he believed it concerned the missing Duke of Gandia.

Alexander could scarcely wait to see the man, and he was immediately brought before the Pope who, with Cesare and several high officials of the Court, waited eagerly for him.

His name, he said, was Giorgio and he slept in his boat which was tied up on the shores of the Tiber.

“My duty, Holiness,” he said, “is to guard the wood pile near the church of San Gerolamo degli Schiavoni close to the Ripetta bridge.”

“Yes, yes,” said the Pope impatiently. “But do not waste time. Tell me what you know of my son.”

“I know this, Holiness, that on the night when the Duke of Gandia disappeared I saw a man riding a white horse, and on this horse he carried what could well be the body of a man. There were two other men, holding the body as the horse came down to the river’s edge. When the horse came to the water the rider turned so that the horse’s tail was to the river; then the two men pulled off that which could well be a body, Holiness, and it fell into the river.”

“Can we trust this man?” demanded the Pope. He was fearful. He did not want to believe him. While the man had spoken he had visualized that limp body on the horse, and it was the body of his beloved son.

“We have no reason to doubt him, Most Holy Lord,” was the answer.

“Holiness,” said Giorgio. “I can tell you more. The body slipped into the water, and it was held up by what seemed to be his cloak, so that it floated and began to drift down stream. Then the man on the horse said something to the others and they began throwing stones at the floating cloak. They pitched the stones on to it again and again until it sank with the weight and disappeared. Holiness, they stood watching for some time and then they rode away.”

“You saw this happen,” said Cesare, “and you told no one! Why not?”

“Why, bless Your Eminence, I live by the river, and living there see countless bodies thrown into the water. There seemed nothing especial to report about this one, save that it happened on the night about which the gentlemen were asking.”

The Pope could bear no more. A terrible melancholy had come to him.

He muttered: “There is nothing to do but drag the river.”

Thus they found Giovanni. There were wounds in his throat, on his face and his body; the mud of the river clung to his fine clothes on which the jewels still remained; his purse was full of ducats, and his rings, brooches and necklace, worth a fortune, had not been taken.

When Alexander was told he went out and stopped those who carried the corpse as it was brought into the castle of St. Angelo. He threw himself on to the body, tore his hair and beat his chest, while he cried out in his grief.

“To those who have dealt thus with him, so they shall be dealt with!” he cried. “Nothing shall be too bitter for them to endure. I’ll not rest, beloved son, most beloved of all, until I have brought your murderer to justice.”

Then he turned to those who carried the ghastly corpse and said to them: “Take my beloved, wash him, perfume him, put on his ducal robes; and thus he shall be buried. Oh Giovanni, oh my beloved son, who has done this cruel deed to you … and to me?”

He was washed and dressed in his ducal robes, and at night by the light of one hundred and twenty flares he was carried from Castle St. Angelo to Santa Maria del Popolo.

The Pope did not accompany him, and as he sat at the window of Castle St. Angelo, looking down on the winding cortège lit by those flares, he could not contain his grief.

“Oh Giovanni, Giovanni,” he moaned, “best loved of all, my dearest, my beloved, why have they done this to thee and me?”

Pedro Caldes came to the convent to see Lucrezia. He was very agitated when she received him, falling on his knees and kissing her hands.

“There is news, terrible news. You will hear of it before long, but I wished to break it gently. I know how you cared for him. Your brother …”

“Cesare!” she cried.

“No. Your brother Giovanni.”

“He is ill?”

“He disappeared, and now they have discovered his body. It was in the Tiber.”

“Giovanni … dead!”

She swayed uncertainly, and Pedro put his arms about her.

“Madonna,” he murmured, “dearest Madonna.”

She sat down and leaned against Pedro.

She lifted her eyes to his face; they were bewildered and filled with misery. “My brother Giovanni … but he was so young, so full of health.”

“He was murdered, Madonna.”

“Who …?”

“None knows.”

She covered her face with her hands. Giovanni, she thought. Not you. It is not possible. She saw him strutting about the nursery, asserting his rights, fighting with Cesare. Fighting with Cesare!

Not Cesare, she told herself. It could not be Cesare who murdered him.

Such thoughts must not be spoken.

Pedro kept his arms about her. He told her the story, beginning with the supper party at Vannozza’s vineyard, while Lucrezia stared blankly before her, picturing it all.

Cesare had been there, and the masked person had lurked in the bushes. Evil thoughts kept coming into her mind. Who was the masked person?

“Did they discover the masked one?” she asked.

“No. None knows who it was.”

“And my father?”

“He is overwhelmed with grief. None has ever seen him so distressed, so unlike himself.”

“And … my brother, my brother Cesare?”

“He does all he can to soothe your father.”

“Oh Pedro, Pedro,” she cried, “what will become of us?”

“Madonna, do not weep. I would die rather than see you unhappy.”

She touched his face lightly. “Sweet Pedro,” she murmured. “Sweet and gentle Pedro.”

He took the fingers which caressed his cheek, and kissed them frantically.

“Pedro, stay with me,” she begged. “Stay here and comfort me.”

“Madonna, I am unworthy.”

“There was never one more gentle and kind to me and therefore more worthy. Oh Pedro, I thank the saints that you came to me, that you will help me bear my sorrows, that you will help stay my fear, for Pedro, I am desperately afraid.”

“Of what, Madonna?”

“I know not, I only know I am afraid. But when you put your arms about me, dear Pedro, I am less afraid. So … do not talk of leaving me. Talk only of staying with me, of helping me to forget these evil things which happen all about me. Pedro, sweet Pedro, talk no more of unworthiness. Stay with me, Pedro. Love me … for I love you too.”

He kissed her lips this time, wonderingly, marvelling, and she returned his kisses.

There was a wildness about her.

“Pedro, I keep seeing it. The pictures come to me. The party … the masked figure … and my brother … and then Giovanni. Oh Pedro, I must shut them out. I cannot bear them. I am frightened, Pedro. Help me … help me, my loved one, to forget.”

Alexander had given orders that a search was to be made to find the murderers of his son, that they might be brought to justice, and there were rumors implicating various people, for Giovanni had had a host of enemies.

It was said that Giovanni Sforza had planned the murder; that he resented the affection between his wife and her family; and Giovanni Borgia had shared that affection with her brother Cesare and her father.

Giovanni Sforza and other suspects quickly established their innocence; there was one name, however, which none dared utter.

The Pope was too unhappy to voice his fears; nor would he face them. He was shut in his rooms alone because he feared someone might give voice to the terrible suspicion which at this time he was unable to face, even in his own thoughts.

This was the greatest tragedy of Alexander’s life and when, a few days after Giovanni’s body had been discovered, he stood before the Consistory, he mourned openly for the death of his beloved son.

“A worse blow could not have fallen upon us,” he declared, “since we loved the Duke of Gandia above all others. We would give most willingly seven tiaras if we could bring him back. We have been punished by God for our sins, for the Duke did not merit this terrible death.”

To the astonishment of all present, Alexander went on to declare that the way of life at the Vatican should be reformed and there should be no more pandering to worldly interests. He would renounce nepotism and begin the reforms in his own household.

The Cardinals were aghast. Never had they thought to hear Alexander make such utterances. He was a changed man.

Cesare sought audience with his father afterward, and looking at that stricken face he was filled with sharp jealousy as he asked himself: Would he have felt such grief for me?

“Father,” said Cesare, “what meant you by those words you spoke before the Cardinals?”

“We meant exactly what we said,” replied the Pope.

Cesare felt as though icy hands were gripping his body, realizing that his father would not meet his eyes.

“Then,” pursued Cesare, who could not leave this subject, once he had started it, “do you mean that you will do nothing to help me, to help Goffredo, Lucrezia and the rest of our family?”

The Pope was silent.

“Father, I beg of you, tell me what is in your mind.”

The Pope lifted his eyes to his son’s face, and Cesare saw there what he had dreaded to find. They held an accusation.

He suspects! thought Cesare. He knows.

Then he remembered those words which the Pope had spoken when he heard of Giovanni’s death. “To those who have dealt death to him so shall they be dealt with. Nothing shall be too bitter for them to endure.”

“Father,” said Cesare, “we must stand together after a tragedy such as this. We must not forget that, whatever happens to any of us, the family must go on.”

“We would be alone,” said the Pope. “Go from us now.”

Cesare went uneasily.

He sought out Sanchia. “I would Lucrezia were here,” he said. “She might comfort our father. But he did not ask even for her. He does not seem to want any of us now. He thinks of nothing but Giovanni.”

But Cesare could find no peace with Sanchia. He must go to his father once more. He must know whether he had read aright the accusation in those eyes.

He went to the Pope’s apartments, taking Sanchia and Goffredo with him, and after a long delay they were admitted.

Sanchia knelt at Alexander’s feet and lifted her beautiful blue eyes to his face. “Father, be comforted,” she said; “it is double grief to your children to see you so.”

The Pope looked at her with cold eyes. He said: “They quarrelled over you—he and his brother. Go from me. I am arranging that you shall leave Rome. You will be departing shortly, with your husband, for Squillace.”

“But Father,” began Sanchia, “we would comfort you in your bitter loss.”

“You comfort me most by removing yourself from my presence.”

It was the first time Cesare had seen his father unmoved by beauty.

“Please go now, you and Goffredo,” he said to Sanchia. Then, turning to Cesare, he went on: “I would have you stay.”

When they were alone they looked at each other, and there was no mistaking the meaning in Alexander’s eyes.

His voice broke as he said: “They shall search no more. I would not have them discover my son’s murderer now. I could bear no further misery.”

Cesare knelt and would have taken his father’s hand, but Alexander removed it. It was as though he could not bear to be touched by the hand which had slain Giovanni.

“I wish you to go to Naples,” he said. “You are appointed Cardinal Legate for the coronation of the new King.”

“Father, another could go,” protested Cesare.

“It is our wish that you should go,” said the Pope firmly. “Now, I pray you leave me. I would be alone with my grief.”

Pedro presented himself daily at the convent. When Sister Girolama suggested his visits were too frequent he had his explanations: His Holiness was prostrate with grief; his one comfort was derived from his daughter’s messages. He did not wish her to return to the Vatican which was deep in mourning, but to stay where she was that he might write to her and she to him. He wished to hear details of her daily life. That was why Pedro called so frequently at the convent.

This was not true, but it was a good enough excuse. It might have been that the sisters had realized that the beautiful girl would never be one of them. Perhaps they sensed her innate worldliness and made no effort to combat it.

Lucrezia lived in her cells which she had converted into comfortable rooms, and if Pedro visited her there instead of in the cold bare room at first assigned to them, that was a matter between the Pope’s daughter and her visitor. Her maid would act as chaperone and, although the maid was a very frivolous creature, she was one who had been selected for the post by the Holy Father, and it was not for the Prioress to complain.

Lucrezia had changed, but the nuns were not conscious of physical appearances, and it was left to Pantisilea to tell her that her eyes were brighter and that she was a hundred times lovelier than she had been when she, Pantisilea, had first come to attend her.

“It is love,” said Pantisilea.

“It is such a hopeless love,” murmured Lucrezia. “Sometimes I wonder where it can lead us.”

But when Pedro was with her she ceased to ask herself such practical questions. All that mattered to Lucrezia was the fulfillment of her love, for she was fully alive now to her own sensuality.

That love had begun in sorrow. She remembered well the day when the terrible shock of Giovanni’s death had made her turn to Pedro. It was then, when he had put his arms about her, that she had realized how deeply in love with him she was.

Love! It was a precious thing. It was worth facing danger for the sake of love; and she had discovered this about herself: She would never again be one to deny love.

Love filled her life, filled the cell at the convent, touching austerity with a roseate light.

Sorrow passed, she found, for news came that even the Pope had come out of retirement, that he was no longer heard weeping and calling for Giovanni.

On the day when Pedro brought the news that the Pope had taken a mistress, they were all very lighthearted in Lucrezia’s room. Only Pantisilea was a little regretful, wishing she had been the one chosen to comfort the Pope. But her place was with Lucrezia whom she hoped never to leave. Nor should she; Lucrezia had promised her that.

“You shall always be with me, dear Pantisilea,” Lucrezia told her. “When I leave this place you shall come with me. No matter where I go I shall take you with me.”

Pantisilea could be happy, for when they left this place she would still live close to His Holiness, and there was always hope that he might notice her again.

Weeks passed. The Pope seemed to have forgotten his grief completely. Cesare was on his way home from Naples, and Alexander was preparing a welcome for him.

Giovanni, the beloved son, was dead, but that was in the past, and the Borgias did not grieve forever.

Cesare stood before his father, and now the Pope looked full into his son’s eyes.

“My son,” he said brokenly.

Cesare kissed his father’s hands; then turned his appealing eyes upon him.

Alexander had been too long alone, and having lost one son he did not intend to lose another.

Already, because he was Alexander, to him Giovanni had become a shadowy figure, and Cesare was here beside him, young, ambitious, strong.

He is the stronger of the two, mused Alexander. He will do great deeds before he dies. With him at its head, the house of Borgia will prosper.

“Welcome home, my son. Welcome home, Cesare,” said the Pope.

And Cesare exulted, for all that he had done, he now knew, had not been in vain.

Lucrezia and Pantisilea were working on a piece of embroidery when Lucrezia dropped the work and let her hands lie idly in her lap.

“Does aught ail you, Madonna?” asked Pantisilea.

“What should you think?” asked Lucrezia sharply.

“I thought you seemed … over-pensive, Madonna. I have noticed it of late.”

Lucrezia was silent. Pantisilea was looking at her in some alarm.

“You have guessed,” said Lucrezia.

“It cannot be, Madonna. It must not be.”

“It is so. I am to have a child.”

“Madonna!”

“Why do you look so shocked? You know that it can easily happen when one has a lover.”

“But you and Pedro! What will your father say? What will your brother do?”

“I dare not think, Pantisilea.”

“How long?”

“It is three months.”

“Three months, Madonna! So it happened in the beginning.”

“It would seem so.”

“June, July, August,” counted Pantisilea. “And it is now the beginning of September. Madonna, what shall we do?”

“I do not know, Pantisilea. I think mayhap I shall go away somewhere in secret. These things have happened before. Perhaps Pedro will come with me.” Lucrezia flung herself into the arms of Pantisilea. “Lucky one!” she cried. “If you loved you might marry; you might live with your husband and children, happy for the rest of your life. But for one such as I am there is nothing but the marriage which will bring advantage to my family. They betrothed me twice and then they married me to Giovanni Sforza.” Now that she loved Pedro she shuddered at the memory of Giovanni Sforza.

“They will soon divorce you from him,” soothed Pantisilea. “Mayhap then you will marry Pedro.”

“Would they allow it?” asked Lucrezia, and all the melancholy had left her face.

“Who knows … if there is a child? Children make so much difference.”

“Oh Pantisilea, how you comfort me! Then I shall marry Pedro and we shall go away from Rome; we shall have a house like my mother’s and I shall have my credenza in which I shall store my silver goblets, my majolica. Pantisilea, how happy we shall be!”

“You will take me with you, Madonna?”

“How could I manage without you? You shall be there, and mayhap I’ll find a husband for you. No, I shall not find you one. You shall find your own and you must love him as I love Pedro. That is the only way to marry, Pantisilea, if you would live happily.”

Pantisilea nodded, but she was apprehensive.

Lucrezia had yet to be divorced, and she was to be divorced because she was virgo intacta on account of her husband’s being unable to consummate the marriage. Pantisilea believed that Lucrezia would have to appear before the Cardinals, perhaps submit to an examination. “Holy Mother of God,” thought Pantisilea, “protect us.”

But she loved Lucrezia—how she loved her! No one had ever been so kind to her before. She would lie for Lucrezia; she would do anything to make her happy. To be with Lucrezia was to share her philosophy of life, to believe that everything must come right and that there was really nothing about which to worry oneself. It was a delightful philosophy. Pantisilea planned to live with it for the rest of her life.

“Pantisilea, should I go to my father, should I tell him that I am to have Pedro’s child? Shall I tell him that Pedro is my husband in all but name and that he must let us marry?”

When Lucrezia talked thus, Pantisilea felt herself jerked roughly into reality.

“His Holiness has had a shock, Madonna. The death of your brother is but three months away. Let him recover from one shock before he is presented with another.”

“This should mean happiness for him. He loves children and he longs for us to have them.”

“Not the children of chamberlains, Madonna. I beg of you, take the advice of Pantisilea. Wait awhile. Choose the right moment to tell His Holiness. There is time yet.”

“But, people will notice.”

“The sisters? They are not very observant. I will make you a dress with voluminous petticoats. In such a dress your child could be about to be born and none know it.”

“It is strange, Pantisilea, but I am so happy.”

“Dearest Madonna, you were meant to have children.”

“I think that is so. When I think of holding this child in my arms, of showing him to Pedro, I am so happy, Pantisilea, that I forget all my troubles. I forget Giovanni. I forget my father’s grief, and I forget Cesare and … But no matter. It is wrong of me to feel so happy.”

“Nay, it is always right to be happy. Happiness is the true meaning of life.”

“But my brother so recently murdered, my father bowed down with grief, and myself a wife already to another man!”

“The time passes and the grief of His Holiness with it. And Giovanni Sforza is no husband to you and never was … so the Pope would have it.”

Pantisilea did not press that subject. She knew that Lucrezia would have to appear before the gathering of Cardinals and declare herself a virgin. The petticoats would have to be very wide.

The Pope and his elder son were often together now. It was said in the Vatican: “His Holiness has already forgotten his vow to end nepotism; he has forgotten his son Giovanni, and all the affection he had for him is now given to Cesare.”

There was a new relationship between Alexander and Cesare; the shock of Giovanni’s death had shaken Alexander; Cesare was exultant because he believed that his father would never be the same again, that their positions had shifted, very slightly it was true; but there was an indication of what they would one day be to each other.

Alexander had lost a little of his authority; Cesare had gained that little. At the time of his great grief Alexander had seemed like an old man; he had recovered, but he had never regained that air of a man in his prime.

Cesare had learned something of great importance: I may do what I will and it makes no difference. There is nothing I cannot do, and he will help me to achieve my ambitions.

Now the Pope said to him: “My son, this divorce of your sister is long delayed. I think we should arrange for her to appear before the assembly.”

“Yes, Father. She cannot be too quickly freed from the man.”

“You were not idle while you were in Naples, Cesare? You sounded the King on the question of a possible husband for your sister?”

“I did, Holiness. Alfonso, the Duke of Bisceglie was suggested.”

The Pope murmured: “Illegitimate.”

Cesare shrugged his shoulders.

“And,” went on Alexander, “Sanchia’s brother.”

“He is like his sister in appearance only,” Cesare said.

The Pope nodded. He could forgive Cesare for bringing about the death of Giovanni, because he was a Borgia and his son; but he found it harder to forgive Sanchia for being one of the causes of jealousy between Cesare and Giovanni.

He considered the marriage. Alliance with Naples would be good at this juncture; and if the marriage became irksome there were always ways of ending it.

“I have been approached by the Prince of Salerno on account of his son Sanseverino.”

“I doubt not that the King of Naples had heard of it, and that is why he was so anxious for you to consider Alfonso of Bisceglie. He would not wish to see such a firm ally of the French joined with us by such a marriage.”

“Francesco Orsini is another; and there is the Lord of Piombino and Ottaviano Riario.”

“Dear Lucrezia—although she is not yet rid of one husband, she has many waiting for her. Fortunate Lucrezia!”

“You are thinking that you are denied marriage, my son.”

Cesare’s eyes were now alight with eagerness. “Oh my father,” he said, “Carlotta of Aragon, the King’s legitimate daughter who is being educated at the Court of France, is marriageable. It was hinted that were I free she might be my wife.”

There was a brief silence. This seemed to Cesare one of the most important moments of his life, for it was as though the Pope were struggling to regain his old supremacy.

Then, after what seemed a long time to Cesare, Alexander spoke. He said slowly: “Such a marriage would be advantageous, my son.”

Cesare knelt in sudden emotion. He took his father’s hand and kissed it passionately.

In this son, thought Alexander, I shall forget all my grief. He shall achieve such greatness that in time I shall cease to regret the loss of his brother.

Life for Lucrezia in the Convent of San Sisto had been an alternation of joy and terror.

She and Pedro indulged in feverish pleasure which was the more intense because they both knew that it could not last. They were two people who must snatch at every moment of happiness, savoring it, cherishing it because they could not know when it would be their last together.

Pantisilea watched them, sharing vicariously their joys and sorrow; her pillows were often wet at night when she lay awake trying to look into the future.

There came that day when Pedro brought an inevitable message from the Pope. Lucrezia was to prepare herself to appear before an assembly of Envoys and Cardinals at the Vatican. There she should be declared virgo intacta.

Lucrezia was terrified.

“But what can I do?” she demanded of Pantisilea.

The little maid tried to comfort her. She should try on the dress Pantisilea had made for her. It was winter-time and she would be expected to wear many petticoats, as it was cold in the convent. She would hold her head high and impress them all with her innocent appearance. She must.

“How can I do it, Pantisilea?” she cried. “How can I stand before those holy men and act this lie?”

“You must do it, Madonna dearest. The Holy Father commands it, and it is necessary that you should be freed from Giovanni Sforza. On what other grounds could you be divorced?”

Lucrezia began to laugh hysterically.

“Pantisilea, why do you look so solemn? Do you not see what a joke this is? I am six months pregnant, and I am to go before the assembly and swear that I am virgo intacta. It is like a tale told by Giovanni Boccaccio. It is a joke … or it would be if it were not so serious … if it might not end tragically.”

“Dear Madonna, we will not let it end tragically. You will do what your father asks of you, and when you are free you will marry Pedro and go away to some place where all will be peace and happiness for you.”

“If only that could be so!”

“Remember it when you stand before those men, and that will give you courage. If you act this lie convincingly you will gain your freedom; and it is, after all, not the child of Giovanni Sforza that you carry. Your happiness—and that of Pedro—depend on how you act before the assembly. Remember that, Madonna.”

“I will remember it,” said Lucrezia firmly.

Pantisilea dressed her with care. Cunningly she arranged the velvet flounces, and when she had finished she was pleased with her work.

“None will guess … I swear it. But, Madonna, how pale you are!”

“I feel the child moving within me as though to reproach me for denying it.”

“Nay you are not denying it. You are making a happy life for it. Do not think of the past, Madonna. Look to the future. Look to happiness with Pedro, and all that will come out of this day.”

“Pantisilea, my dear little maid, what should I have done without you?”

“Oh Madonna, none ever had a sweeter mistress. If I could not serve you, life would be dull for me. Anything I have done for you has been repaid a thousandfold.”

They clung together, two frightened girls.

And so she came to the Vatican, and there in the presence of her father and the members of the assembly she listened to the reading by one of the Cardinals of the document which declared that her marriage to Giovanni Sforza had not been consummated and that as a result Lucrezia was virgo intacta. This being no true marriage they were gathered together to pronounce its annulment.

She stood before them and never had her innocent looks served her so well.

The Cardinals and Envoys were impressed by her beauty and her youthful appearance; they needed no other proof of her virginity.

She was told that she was no longer married to Giovanni Sforza, and she answered with a speech of thanks which was so disarming that all present were charmed with her.

There was a moment when, feeling the child move within her, she felt dizzy and swayed slightly.

“Poor child!” murmured one of the Cardinals. “What an ordeal for one so young and innocent to endure!”

The Pope was waiting for her in his private apartments; Cesare was with him.

“My dearest,” said the Pope, embracing her warmly, “at last I hold you in my arms again. This has been a trying time for us all.”

“Yes, Father.”

Cesare added: “And to have you shut away from us … that has been the most trying of all.”

“I needed the refuge,” she answered, not daring to meet their eyes.

“I trust,” said the Pope, “that you found little Pantisilea a good servant?”

Lucrezia replied passionately: “I love the girl. I do not know what I should have done without her. Thank you a thousand times, Father, for sending her to me.”

“I knew she would serve you well,” answered Alexander.

“The time has come for you to begin a new life, dear sister,” Cesare murmured. “Now that you are rid of Sforza you will find life sweet again.”

She did not answer. Desperately she was seeking for courage to tell them of her condition, to explain why they must put aside all thought of a grand marriage for her, how she loved Pedro and that he was the father of the child she carried.

She had imagined herself telling them, again and again as she lay in her converted cell and, although it had seemed a great ordeal which lay before her, it had not seemed impossible. Facing them, she found that she had underestimated the fear and awe in which she held them, the power which they held over her.

Alexander’s smile was almost roguish. “There are many clamoring for your hand, daughter.”

“Father … I do not wish to think of them.”

Cesare had moved swiftly toward her and put an arm about her. “What ails you, Lucrezia? You look ill. I fear you have suffered privation in your convent.”

“No … no. I have been comforted there.”

“It is no place for such as you are.”

“But you are pale and you look exhausted,” said the Pope.

“Let me sit down a moment,” Lucrezia begged.

Both men watched her intently. Only Alexander realized how frightened she was, and he motioned her to a stool.

Cesare told her of the men who were eager to marry her. “Francesco Orsini … Ottaviano Riario … and there is Sanchia’s brother, the little Duke of Bisceglie.”

Alexander said suddenly: “This has been an ordeal for the child. She needs rest now. Your apartments have been prepared for you, my dear. You shall go to them at once.”

Cesare was about to protest, but the Pope was his old firm self. He was clapping his hands and slaves were appearing.

“Madonna Lucrezia’s women should conduct her to her apartments,” he said.

When he was alone, Alexander stood before the shrine in his apartments. He was not praying; he was staring at it, and there were furrows in his brow and the rich purple blood stained his face, while in his temples a pulse throbbed visibly.

It was impossible. But it was not impossible at all. What had been happening in the convent all these months? He had heard stories of what could and did happen in convents. But not that of San Sisto.

He had not dared voice his supicions before Cesare. Oh yes, he was afraid of his son. If Cesare had guessed what was in his mind he might have done anything, however reckless. Cesare must not know yet … if it were true. But this monstrous thing which he suspected must not be true.

He thanked the saints that Cesare’s mind was so constantly on his own affairs that he had failed to be as perceptive as his father. Cesare had been dreaming of release from the Church and marriage to Carlotta of Naples, even as Lucrezia stood before them, and he had not noticed how complete was the change in Lucrezia. Could all those months of quiet life at San Sisto’s have wrought such a change? Not they alone.

But he must be careful. He must remember his fainting fits. It would not do for him to be ill now, because if what he suspected were true he would need all his wits to deal with it.

He must wait. He must recover his equanimity; he must remind himself that he was Alexander, who had emerged triumphant after the death of Calixtus—Alexander who on every occasion turned defeat into victory.

At length he made his way to his daughter’s apartment.

Lucrezia was lying on her bed, and only Pantisilea sat beside her. There were tears on Lucrezia’s cheeks, and the sight of them filled Alexander’s heart with tenderness.

“Leave us, my dear,” he said to Pantisilea; and the girl’s dark eyes were fearful and yet adoring as they met his. It was as though she implored him, out of his great tenderness, his power and understanding, to save her dear mistress.

“Father!” Lucrezia would have risen, but Alexander put a hand on her shoulder and gently forced her back on to the pillows.

“What have you to tell me, my child?” he asked.

She looked at him appealingly, but she could not speak.

“You must tell me,” he said gently. “Only if you do, can I help you.”

“Father, I am afraid.”

“Afraid of me? Have I not always been benevolent to you?”

“The kindest father in the world, Most Holy Lord.”

He took her hand and kissed it.

“Who is he?” he asked.

Her eyes opened wide and she shrank against her pillows.

“Do you not trust me, child?”

She sprang up suddenly and threw herself into his arms; she began to sob wildly; never had he seen his serene little Lucrezia so moved.

“My dearest, my dearest,” he murmured, “you may tell me. You may tell me all. I shall not scold you whatever you have to tell. Do I not love you beyond all else in the world? Is not your happiness my most constant purpose?”

“I thank the saints for you,” sobbed Lucrezia.

“Will you not tell me? Then must I tell you. You are to have a child. When, Lucrezia?”

“It should be in March.”

The Pope was astounded. “That is but three months hence. So soon! I should not have believed it.”

“Pantisilea has been so clever … oh, such a comfort, Father. Thank you for sending her. I could not have had a dearer friend. I shall always love her … as long as I live.”

“She is a dear creature,” said the Pope. “I am glad that she comforted you. But tell me, who is the father of your child?”

“I love him, Father. You will permit our marriage?”

“It is difficult for me to deny my daughter anything.”

“Oh Father, beloved Father, would I had come to you before. How foolish I was! I was afraid. When you were not with me, I did not see you as you really are. I saw you as the powerful Pope determined to make a politically advantageous marriage for me. I had forgotten that the Holy Father of us all was first my own dear father.”

“Then it is time we were together again. The name of the man?”

“It is your chamberlain, Pedro Caldes.”

The Pope rocked her to and fro in his arms.

“Pedro Caldes,” he repeated. “A handsome boy. One of my favorite chamberlains. And he visited you in your convent, of course.”

“It was when he brought me news of Giovanni’s death, Father, and I was so unhappy. He comforted me.”

The Pope held her fiercely against him; for a moment his face was distorted with rage and anguish. My beloved Giovanni murdered, he was thinking; my daughter pregnant with the child of a chamberlain!

But when Lucrezia looked at him, his face wore its habitual expression of tenderness and benignity.

“My dear child,” he said, “I will confess that I am startled.”

She took his hands and covered them with kisses. How appealing she was, looking at him with those adoring yet frightened eyes; she reminded him of her mother at the height of their passion.

“Father, you will help me?”

“Do you doubt it … for one moment? Shame, Lucrezia! But we must be cautious. You have been divorced in the belief that your husband is impotent and you are a virgin.” In spite of the Pope’s horror at the situation with which he was confronted he he could not refrain from smiling. It was a situation which, in any circumstances, must seem to him essentially humorous. “What will our good Cardinals say, think you, if they discover that the charming innocent young virgin, who appeared before them so decorously, was six months pregnant? Oh Lucrezia, my clever one, my subtle one, it would not do at all. We might even have Sforza claiming the child and swearing it was his. Then where would be our divorce? We have to act now with the utmost caution. The matter must be kept secret. Who knows of it?”

“None but Pedro and Pantisilea.”

The Pope nodded.

“None must know, my child.”

“And Father, I may marry Pedro? We want to go away from Rome to live quietly and happily somewhere together, where no one concerns themselves with us and what we do; where we can live peaceful happy lives, as ordinary people may.”

The Pope smoothed her hair from her hot face. “My beloved,” he said, “you must leave this matter in my hands. The world shall know that the ordeal through which you have passed has been a trying one. You will stay in your apartments at Santa Maria in Portico and, until you have regained your health, none shall wait on you but the faithful Pantisilea. In the meantime we will discover what can be done to make you happy.”

Lucrezia lay back on her pillows, and the tears slowly ran down her cheeks.

“In truth,” she said, “Alexander VI, you are not a man; you are a god.”

Madonna Lucrezia was ill. For two months since she had left the convent she had been confined to her apartments, and only her maid Pantisilea and the members of her family were allowed to see her.

The citizens of Rome laughed among themselves. What did this mean? What had Madonna Lucrezia been doing during her stay in the convent? They remembered that she was after all a Borgia. In a few months’ time would there be a child at the Vatican, a little infant whom the Pope in his benevolence had decided to adopt?

Cesare heard the rumors, and declared he would be revenged on those who repeated them.

He went to his father’s presence and told him what was being said.

“It is inevitable,” said the Pope. “There are always such stories concerning us. The people need them as they need their carnivals.”

“I’ll not have such things said of Lucrezia. She must come out of her seclusion. She must show herself.”

“Cesare, how could she do that?”

The Pope was looking at his son, marvelling at the egoism of Cesare, who was waiting for that day when he would be released from the Church to marry Carlotta of Naples and take charge of the Papal armies. That image in his mind was so big that it obscured all others. Thus it must have been when he arranged for the murder of Giovanni. The grief of his father was as nothing beside his own grandiose ambitions. Even Lucrezia’s predicament was not known to him, which seemed fantastic because, had he given the matter a moment’s thought, it would surely have been obvious.

“By appearing among them,” Cesare replied.

It was time he realized the true state of affairs. At the end of the month, or the beginning of next, Lucrezia’s child would be born. He would have to know.

“That,” said Alexander, “would be but to confirm the rumors.”

Now Cesare was really startled. The Pope watched the hot blood rush into his handsome face.

“ ’Tis true enough,” went on Alexander. “Lucrezia is with child. Moreover the birth is imminent. Cesare, I wonder you did not realize this.”

Alexander frowned. He understood how terrified Lucrezia would be of Cesare’s discovering her condition. She and little Pantisilea would have been doubly careful when Cesare visited her.

“Lucrezia … to have a child!”

The Pope lifted his shoulders. “These things happen,” he said lightly.

“While she was in the convent!” Cesare clenched his fists. “So that was why she was so contented there. Who is the father?”

“My son, let not our tempers run high. This is a matter wherein we need all our cunning, all our calm. It is unfortunate, but if this marriage we are planning for Lucrezia is to be brought about, it will not help us if it should be known that, while she stood before the Cardinals declaring herself virgo intacta, she was in fact six months pregnant. This must be our little secret matter.”

“Who is the father?” repeated Cesare.

The Pope went on as though he had not spoken. “Listen to my plan. None shall attend her but Pantisilea. When the child is born it shall be taken away immediately. I have already been in contact with some good people who will take it and care for it. I shall reward them well, for remember, this is my grandchild, a Borgia, and we have need of Borgias. Mayhap in a few years’ time I will have the child brought to the Vatican. Mayhap I will watch over its upbringing. But for a few years it must be as though there was no child.”

“I wish to know the name of this man,” insisted Cesare.

“You are too angry, Cesare. I must warn you, my son, that anger is the greatest enemy of those who allow it to conquer them. Keep your anger in chains. It was what I learned to do at an early age. Show no anger against this young man. I shall not. I understand what made him act as he did. Come, Cesare, would not you and I in similar circumstances behave in exactly the same manner? We cannot blame him.” The Pope’s expression changed very slightly. “But we shall know how to deal with him when the time comes.”

“He shall die,” cried Cesare.

“All in good time,” murmured the Pope. “At the moment … let all be peaceful. There is my little Pantisilea.” The Pope’s tone was regretful, and his smile tender. “She knows a great deal. Poor child, such knowledge is not good for her.”

“Father, you are wise. You know how to deal with matters like this, but I must know this man’s name. I cannot rest until I do.”

“Do nothing rash, my son. His name is Pedro Caldes.”

“Is he not one of your chamberlains?”

The Pope nodded.

Cesare was shaking with rage. “How dare he! A chamberlain, a servant … and my sister!”

The Pope laid a hand on his son’s shoulder, and was alarmed by the tremors which shook Cesare.

“Your pride is great, my son. But remember … caution! We shall know how to settle this matter, you and I. But at the moment our best method is caution.”

Caution! It was not in Cesare’s nature to be cautious. The rages which had come to him in boyhood were more frequent as he grew older, and he found it becoming more and more difficult to control them.

His mind was dominated now by one picture: His sister with the chamberlain. He was obsessed by jealousy and hatred, and there was murder in his heart.

The Pope had urged caution, but he no longer obeyed the Pope. After the death of his brother he had learned his father’s weakness. Alexander did not remember to mourn for long. He forgot the misdeeds of his family; he ceased to regret the dead and gave all his attention to the living. The great affection of which he was capable—evanescent though it might be—was intense while it lasted; and it had to be directed toward someone. Cesare had taken the affection his father had given to Giovanni, as though it were a title or estate. Cesare knew he need not fear the loss of his father’s affection, no matter what he did. That was the great discovery he had made. That was why he felt powerful, invincible. Alexander was lord of Italy, and Alexander would bend to the will of his son.

So when Alexander said Caution, why should Cesare heed that warning unless he wished to?

One day he came face to face with Pedro Caldes in one of the ante-rooms leading to the Papal apartments, and Cesare’s anger flared up to such an extent that he was drained of all memories of his father’s warning.

“Caldes, halt!” cried Cesare.

“My lord …” began the startled chamberlain, “what would you have of me?”

“Your life,” said Cesare, and he drew his sword.

The startled young man turned and fled toward the Pope’s apartments. Cesare, grasping his sword, followed.

Pedro, breathless and terrified, could hear the cruel laughter of Cesare close behind him; once Cesare’s sword touched his thigh and he felt the hot blood run down his leg.

“You waste time in running,” Cesare cried. “You shall die for what you have dared do to my sister.”

Fainting with fear, Pedro reached the Papal throne, on which Alexander was sitting; with him were two of his chamberlains and one of the Cardinals.

Pedro cried: “Holy Father, save me … save me before I die!” And he flung himself at Alexander’s feet.

Cesare was upon him. Alexander had risen, his expression horrified and full of warning.

“My son, my son, desist,” he cried. “Put away your sword.”

But Cesare merely laughed and thrust at the chamberlain, as Alexander stooped forward to protect him, so that the blood spurted up and stained the Pope’s robes, and even splashed his face.

Those who had been with the Pope stood back aghast, while Alexander put his arms about Pedro and looked up into his son’s glowering face.

“Put away your sword,” he said sternly, and there was a return of the Alexander who, benevolent as he was, had always known how to quell his sons. “Bring not your quarrels to our sacred throne.”

Cesare laughed again, but he felt once more that awe of his father which he was surprised to discover he had not quite overcome.

He obeyed as he said truculently: “Let him not think that this is the end of our quarrel.”

Then he turned and strode out of the apartment.

Alexander murmured: “The hot blood of youth! He does not mean to be so rash. But who of us was not rash in youth? Have this young man’s wounds attended to and … for his own safety let him be kept under guard.”

Pantisilea leaned over the bed.

Lucrezia murmured: “It is beginning, Pantisilea.”

“Lie down, Madonna. I will send a message to the Holy Father.”

Lucrezia nodded. “He will take care of everything.”

Pantisilea despatched a slave to the Vatican with a signet ring which the Pope had given her and which was to be a sign between them that Lucrezia was in need of a midwife. In this affair, the Pope had decided, no word should be written. When he received the ring he would know its purpose, and for no other reason must it be sent to him.

“How blessed I am in such a father,” murmured Lucrezia. “Oh, Pantisilea, why did I not go to him at once? If I had, Pedro and I might have been married now. How long it is since I saw Pedro! He should be close to me now. How happy I should be if he were! I shall ask my father to bring him to me.”

“Yes, Madonna, yes,” soothed Pantisilea.

She was a little uneasy. She had heard rumors concerning the disappearance of Pedro Caldes, but she had not told Lucrezia of this. It would upset her with her confinement so near.

“I dream, you know,” said Lucrezia. “I dream all the time. We shall have to leave Rome. That will be necessary for a while, I doubt not. We shall live quietly for a few years in some remote place—even more remote than Pesaro; but I do not think my father will allow us to be away from him forever. He will visit us; and how he will love his grandchild! Pantisilea, do you think it will be a boy?”

“Who can say, Madonna? Let us not pray for a boy or a girl, but that it will bring you great happiness.”

“You speak like a sage, Pantisilea. And look, your cheeks are wet. You are crying. Why are you crying?”

“Because … because it is so beautiful. A new life about to begin … the fruit of your love. It is beautiful and it makes me weep.”

“Dear Pantisilea! But there are the pains to be endured first, and I confess I am frightened.”

“You should not be, Madonna. The pains come and then … there is the blessing.”

“Stay with me, Pantisilea. All the time stay with me. Promise.”

“If it is permitted.”

“And when the child is born, when we have our little home, you will be with us. You must not make the baby love you too much, Pantisilea, or I shall be jealous.”

Pantisilea’s answer was to burst into stormy tears.

“It is because it is so beautiful,” she repeated. “Almost too beautiful to be true.”

The midwife came. She was masked and accompanied by two men, also masked. They waited outside the door of Lucrezia’s room and the midwife came to the bed.

She examined Lucrezia and gave orders to Pantisilea. The two men remained outside the door during Lucrezia’s labor.

Lucrezia awoke from exhaustion, and asked for the child. It was placed in her arms.

“A little boy,” said Pantisilea.

“I feel I shall die of happiness,” murmured Lucrezia. “My own child. I would that Pedro were here. He should be eager to see his son, should he not? Pantisilea, I want you to bring Pedro to me.”

Pantisilea nodded.

“I want you to bring him at once.”

The midwife had come to the bed. She said: “The Madonna is weary and needs to rest.”

“I want to hold my baby in my arms,” said Lucrezia, “and when his father is here with me I shall feel completely at rest.”

“Your maid shall be sent at once for the child’s father. It has been arranged,” said the midwife. She turned to Pantisilea. “Put on your cloak, and prepare to go at once.”

“I do not know where to find him,” began Pantisilea.

“You will be taken to him.”

Lucrezia smiled at Pantisilea, and the little maid’s eyes were wide with joy.

“I will not delay a moment,” she cried. “I will go at once.”

“You will be conducted there. You will find your guide waiting at the door.”

“I shall not be long, Madonna,” said Pantisilea; and she knelt by the bed and kissed Lucrezia’s hand.

“Go, Pantisilea,” murmured Lucrezia. “Go with all speed.”

Lucrezia’s eyes followed Pantisilea to the door. Then the midwife stooped over the bed.

“Madonna, I will take the baby from you now. He must sleep in his cradle. You need rest. I have a draft here which will send you to sleep. Take it and sleep long and deep, for you will have need of your strength.”

Lucrezia took the draft, kissed the child’s fair head, gave him to the midwife and lay back on her pillows. In a few minutes she was asleep.

One of the men who had been waiting outside the door of Lucrezia’s apartment stepped forward as Pantisilea came out.

“Follow me,” he said, and together they went out of the palace to the courtyard, where a horse was waiting for them.

It was evening and there was only moonshine to light the streets as Pantisilea rode pillion with her guide away from the palace. They went from the populous quarter and down to the river.

When they were near the bank, the horseman stopped.

He said: “ ’Tis a beautiful night, Pantisilea.”

She looked at the pale moonlight on the water and thought it wonderful. All the world looked beautiful because she was happy. Her mistress safely delivered of a fine boy, herself on the way to bring Pedro to Lucrezia. She had been thinking of their future as they rode along.

“Yes,” she said, “it is beautiful. But let us not tarry. My mistress longs to see Pedro Caldes.”

“There is no hurry,” said the man. “Your mistress will have a long sleep. She is exhausted.”

“I would rather proceed at once to our destination.”

“Very well, Pantisilea.”

He leaped down from his horse.

“Whither are you going?” she asked.

His answer was to lift her from the horse. She looked about her for some dwelling where Pedro might be sheltering, but she could see none.

The man said: “How small you are, Pantisilea, and so young.”

He bent his head and kissed her lips.

She was astonished, but not displeased. It was long since a man had caressed her.

She laughed softly and said: “It is not the time. I wish to be taken at once to Pedro Caldes.”

“You have spoken, Pantisilea,” said the man.

He put his hands tenderly on her head and moved them slowly down to her ears, caressing them. She looked up into his face; he was not looking at her; he seemed to be staring at the moonlit river. His eyes were fixed and glassy, and suddenly a terrible fear took hold of Pantisilea.

For in a moment of blinding understanding she knew, even before it happened.

Then she felt the hands slide down to her throat.

Lucrezia awoke. It was daylight.

She had been dreaming. She was in a beautiful garden in the country; her baby boy lay in his cradle, and she and his father were bending over it looking at the child.

A happy dream, but only a dream. And here was the day, and she was awake.

She was not alone in her room; a man sat on either side of her bed, and she was conscious of the dull thudding of her heart. Pedro had been promised her; and he had not come; and where was Pantisilea?

She struggled up.

“You should rest,” said Alexander. “You need your strength, my dear.”

“Father,” she murmured; and then she turned to that other figure. “And Cesare,” she added.

“We have come to tell you that all is well,” said Cesare. He spoke in stern clipped tones, and she knew that he was angry. She shrank from him toward her father. Alexander’s voice had been as kind and tender as it ever was.

“I want my child,” she said. “Father, it is a boy. You will love him.”

“Yes,” said the Pope. “In a few years he shall be with us.”

She smiled. “Oh, Father, I knew I could rely on you to look after me.”

The beautiful white hand patted hers. “My little one,” murmured Alexander. “My wise little one.”

She took his hand and kissed it.

“Now,” said Alexander briskly, “there is nothing to worry about. Everything has been settled. You will in a short while resume your normal life, and this little affair, although there have been some ugly rumors, will have been forgotten.”

“Father, Pedro …”

“Do not speak his name,” said Cesare harshly.

“Cesare, dearest brother, understand me. I love Pedro. He is the father of my child and soon to be my husband. Our father has arranged that it shall be so.”

“My dearest,” said the Pope, “alas, that cannot be.”

She struggled up in her alarm.

“My dear daughter,” murmured the Pope. “It is time you knew the truth.”

“But I love him, Father, and you said …”

Alexander had turned away and put a kerchief to his eyes.

Cesare said almost viciously: “Pedro Caldes’ body was recovered from the Tiber yesterday. You have lost your lover, sister; lost him to death.”

She fell back on her pillows, her eyes closed. The Pope leaned over her lovingly. “It was too sudden,” he said. “My sweet, sweet child, I would I could bear your pains for you.”

A smile of sarcasm twisted Cesare’s lips as he looked at his father.

He wanted to shout: “At whose orders was the chamberlain murdered? At mine and yours. Rightly so. Has she not disgraced our name enough by consorting with servants!”

Instead he said: “There is another who has joined him there … your maid Pantisilea. You will never see her face again.”

Lucrezia covered her face with her hands; she wanted to shut out the sight of this room and the men who sat on either side of her. They were her guardians; they were her jailors. She had no life which was not designed by them. She could not take a step without them; if she attempted to do so, they arranged that she should meet only disaster.

Pedro in the river! She thought of him with the wounds on his body or perhaps the bruises on his throat; perhaps neither. Perhaps they had poisoned him before they had given him to the river.

Pedro, the handsome boy. What had he done but love Lucrezia?

And little Pantisilea. Never to see her again. She could not endure it. There was a limit to the sorrow one could suffer.

“Go … go from me,” she stammered. “Have my child brought to me … and go … go, I say.”

There was silence in the room. Neither Cesare nor Alexander moved.

Then Alexander spoke, still in those gentle soothing tones. “The child is being well looked after, Lucrezia. You have nothing to fear on his account.”

“I want my son,” she cried. “I want my baby. I want him here … in my arms. You have murdered the man I love. You have murdered my friend. There is nothing I want now of you but to give me my child. I will go away. I will live alone with my child … I want never to see this place again.…”

Cesare said: “Is this Lucrezia speaking? Is this Lucrezia Borgia?”

“Yes,” she cried. “It is I, and no other.”

“We have been wrong,” said Alexander quickly. “We have broken this news too sharply. Believe me, dearest daughter, there are times when one sharp cut of the knife is best. Then the healing can begin at once. It was wrong of you—a Borgia, our own beloved daughter—so to conduct yourself with a servant. And that there should be a child, was … criminal. But we love you dearly and we understand your emotions. We forgive them as we would forgive all your sins. We are weak and we love you tenderly. We have saved you from disgrace and disaster, as we always should. You are our dearest treasure and we love you as we love none other. I and your brother feel thus toward you, and together we have saved you from the consequences of great sin and folly. Those who shared this adventure are no more; so there is no danger of their betraying you. As for the child, he is a beautiful boy and already I love him. But you must say good-bye to him—oh, only for a short while. As soon as it can be arranged I shall have him brought back to us. He is a Borgia. He kicked and screamed at me. Bless him. He is in the best of hands; he has a worthy foster-mother. She will tend him as her own—nay better. She’ll not dare let any harm come to our little Borgia. And this I promise you, Lucrezia: in four years … nay, in three, we’ll have him with us, we’ll adopt our lusty boy, and thus none will be able to point a finger at him and say, ‘There is the bastard of Lucrezia and a poor chamberlain.’ ”

She was silent. The dream had disappeared; she could not grasp the reality. Not yet. But she knew she would. She knew that she could do no other.

Cesare had taken her hand, and she felt his lips touch it.

“Dearest,” he said, “we shall arrange a grand marriage for you.”

She shivered.

“It is too soon to talk of such things,” reproved Alexander. “That comes later.”

Still she did not speak.

They continued to sit there. Each held one of her hands and now and then would stoop to kiss it.

She felt bereaved of all happiness; and yet she was conscious of a vague comfort which came to her through those kisses.

She was growing aware of the inevitability of what had happened. She was beginning to realize how foolish her dreams had been.