Madonna of the Seven Hills

SANTA MARIA IN PORTICO

Lucrezia soon understood how much more gratifying it was to be the daughter of a Pope than that of a Cardinal.

Firmly on the Papal throne, Alexander made no secret of his intentions. Giovanni was to return from Spain that Alexander might put him in charge of the Papal armies; Cesare was to be made Archbishop of Valencia; as for Lucrezia she was to be given a palace of her own—that of Santa Maria in Portico. Lucrezia was delighted with this honor, and especially so because she might now move from the gloomy fortress of Monte Giordano into the center of the City.

Alexander had a double purpose in giving Lucrezia this palace; it adjoined the Church of St. Peter’s and there was a secret passage which connected it with the church and continued into the Vatican. Adriana and Giulia were to be of Lucrezia’s household; Orsino would accompany them, but of course he was of no account.

Lucrezia looked forward to the new life with zest. It was wonderful to be grown up. Her brother Giovanni would soon be in Italy and Cesare, so her father had told her, was to be recalled to Rome. He was only being kept away for a short while because Alexander did not want the people to think he was continuing his policy of nepotism since, before his election, he had promised to abandon it. Cesare was already an Archbishop, and Alexander knew that if his son were in Rome it would become very difficult not to shower more honors upon him. So, for the moment, Cesare should remain at Pisa—but it would only be for the present.

Lucrezia had a great deal to look forward to. She saw her father often, saw him in the midst of all his pomp and ceremony, and thus he seemed to grow more splendid, more magnificent.

All day she would hear the bells of St. Peter’s; and while she worked at her embroidery or sat at her window watching the passing pageants, the scent of incense and the sound of chanting voices came to her seeming to promise her a wonderfully exciting future.

Adriana had put off her mourning and was as respectful to Lucrezia as she was devoted to Giulia, who had even more influence at the Vatican than Lucrezia had.

Lucrezia understood why. She was not surprised if, looking in on Giulia’s bedchamber, she found the young girl absent. The sound of footsteps, late at night or in early morning, in that corridor from which led the secret passage to the Vatican, did not surprise her.

She agreed with Adriana that Giulia was indeed fortunate to be loved by one so magnificent as Alexander.

Many important visitors—ambassadors and other dignitaries from the various states—called at the palace of Santa Maria and, under Adriana’s guardianship, Lucrezia knew how to receive them. None came without bringing gifts—some for Lucrezia, some for Giulia.

“How kind they are!” said Lucrezia one day when she was examining a beautiful set of furs. “None comes empty-handed.”

Giulia laughed at her simplicity. “Do not be quite so grateful, dearest Lucrezia,” she advised. “They only give because they hope to get in return something which means far more to them.”

Lucrezia was reflective. “It spoils the gift,” she said. “Indeed it makes no gift at all.”

“Of course it is no gift. It is a payment for favors they hope to receive.”

“The furs no longer seem so beautiful,” sighed Lucrezia.

Giulia looked at her fondly and thought what a long time it took for her to grow realistic. If Lucrezia had been born poor what a good-hearted little simpleton she might have been!

Was she not aware that, as the Pope’s beloved daughter, she had great influence with him?

Lucrezia did know, for she was quickly made aware of this. Adriana believed that Alexander did not want a simpleton for a daughter, therefore this simplicity, this generous open-heartedness of Lucrezia must be checked. Such qualities were foolish.

It was necessary for her to have many rich possessions, Adriana implied. Did she mean to rely entirely on her father for them? No, let her be subtle. Let her use her own shrewdness, so that the Pope realized that he had a clever little daughter and could be proud of her.

Did she love fine clothes? None more. Lucrezia had always been a little vain of her beauty, and what could show it to better advantage than beautiful furs and fine brocades? Then let her make those who sought her favors aware of this. Let them know that, if they made her presents which pleased her, she would show her gratitude by begging her father to give them the help they needed.

“Why,” said Adriana, “Francesco Gonzaga will be coming to see you soon. He greatly desires that his brother Sigismondo should become a Cardinal.”

“He comes to ask me this?”

“A word to your father from you would help his cause.”

“But how could I who know so little of such matters influence my father?”

“Your father wishes you to show yourself to be a Borgia. He would be pleased to do what you ask of him, and he would like Gonzaga to know in what esteem he holds you. If Gonzaga brought you a valuable present and you could say to your father: ‘See what Gonzaga has brought me!’ why then His Holiness would be pleased at the honor done you and would be ready, I doubt not, to grant favors to one who had shown he knew how to pay for them.”

“I see,” said Lucrezia. “I did not know that these matters were arranged thus.”

“Then it is time you learned. You love pearls, do you not?”

Lucrezia’s eyes sparkled. She did love pearls. They suited her fair skin; when she put on the beautiful necklace which Giulia had been given by Alexander she was sure she looked as beautiful as Giulia.

“I will tell Gonzaga that you are excessively fond of pearls,” said Adriana, smiling knowledgeably.

And it surely would be wonderful, thought Lucrezia, to possess pearls like Giulia’s.

So this was the way a Pope’s daughter lived. It was wonderfully exciting and very profitable. Who was Lucrezia—rather lazy Lucrezia, who more than most girls loved fine clothes and becoming ornaments—who was she to disagree with this mode of living?

Alexander received his daughter in his apartments at the Vatican; with her, as companion, came Giulia. Alexander still doted on the latter and could scarcely let a day pass without seeing her.

When Alexander received these two beloved ones he liked to do so in the utmost intimacy, so he dismissed all his attendants when they arrived, and had the girls sit, one on either side of him that he might put an arm about each.

How beautiful they were, he thought, with their young smooth skins and their shining golden hair—surely two of the loveliest girls in Rome. Life seemed good when he at sixty had the vigor of a young man, and he was certain that Giulia was making no pretense when she showed so clearly that her passion for him was as great as his for her, and that her poor little squint-eyed husband, young as he was, had no charm for her.

Lucrezia nestling against her father was admiring the splendor of his apartments. The ceiling was gilded and the walls of delicate colors; there were oriental carpets on the floor, and the great artist Pinturicchio had begun the murals; but these did not yet cover the walls, and below them were hangings of the finest silk. There were many chairs, stools and cushions of silk and velvet in brilliant colors; and dominating all was the glory of the Papal throne.

All this belonged to this godlike person who, it seemed impossible to believe, was her tender and loving father, and who when he was alone with his beloved girls would seem to imply that his greatest joy in life was pleasing them.

“I have sent for you this day because I have something to tell you, daughter,” he said. “We are going to cancel the arrangements we have made for your marriage to Don Gasparo di Procida.”

“Is that so, Father?” she asked.

Giulia laughed. “She does not mind. She does not mind in the least.”

The Pope caressed his daughter’s cheek, and Lucrezia was reminded of the pleasure she had derived from Cesare’s caresses.

“Father,” she cried, “when shall I see Cesare?”

Giulia and the Pope laughed together and exchanged glances.

“You see I am right,” said Giulia. “Poor Lucrezia! She has never had a lover.”

It was hardly a frown which crossed the Pope’s face; he rarely showed displeasure with his loved ones, but Giulia was aware that her remark had disturbed him. She was however too sure of her power to be afraid of displeasing. “It’s true,” she said almost defiantly.

“One day,” said Alexander, “my daughter will find great joy in love, I doubt not. But she will wait until the time when she is ready.”

Lucrezia took her father’s hand and kissed it.

“She cares more for her father and brothers than for any others,” said Giulia. “Why, she says of every man she sees: ‘How insignificant he is beside my father … or Cesare or Giovanni!’ ”

“Lucrezia is a Borgia,” said Alexander, “and Borgias see great virtue in Borgias.”

“They are not the only ones,” said Giulia, laughing and holding his arm against her. “I pray you, beloved and Holy Father, tell us who will now be Lucrezia’s bridegroom.”

“A man of great importance. His name is Giovanni Sforza.”

“Is he an old man?” asked Giulia.

“What has age to do with love?” demanded the Pope, and this time there was reproach in his voice.

But Giulia was quick with her soothing reply. “It is only gods who have the gift of remaining forever young. Giovanni Sforza, I’ll swear, is but a man.”

Alexander laughed and kissed her. “It is a good match. My beloved daughter will bless me for arranging it. Come, Lucrezia, are you not going to show your pleasure?”

Lucrezia kissed him dutifully. “But I have been betrothed so many times. I will wait until I see him and then until I am married to him before I am too grateful.”

The Pope laughed. They amused him with their chatter and he was sorry to have to send them away because official matters must be settled.

Surrounded by their attendants they left the Vatican, and as they were crossing the square an unkempt vagabond peered at Giulia insolently and cried out: “Why, ’tis the bride of Christ!”

Giulia’s eyes flashed, but the man lost no time in running as fast as his legs could carry him, and had disappeared before Giulia could send anyone after him.

“You are angry, Giulia,” said Lucrezia, “angry at the words of a beggar.”

“I do not care to be insulted,” retorted Giulia. “You know what he meant.”

“That you are my father’s mistress. That is no insult. Think of all those who come to pay court to you because of that!”

“The common people consider it an insult,” said Giulia. “I wish I could have that man put in prison. I’d have him punished.”

Lucrezia shivered. She knew that often men who insulted those in high places had their tongues cut out.

She would not think of that. Perhaps she would have to learn to contemplate such things with indifference, as she had had to learn to accept the relationship between her father and Giulia and pious Adriana’s acceptance of it, and as she had had to accept the fact that she must make herself rich and important by taking bribes. She doubted not that in time she would grow as indifferent as others to these matters; but there was a softness within her which made it difficult for her.

She must conform. She must be like those who lived about her. But for the time being she would refuse to think of the cruel things which could happen to men and women, merely because they spoke too freely.

She wanted to be happy; therefore she would not think of anything that might make her otherwise.

She turned to Giulia. “Perhaps I shall marry this man, this Giovanni Sforza. I like the sound of him. He has the same name as my brother.”

“There are many Giovannis in Italy,” Giulia reminded her.

“But I doubt not that something will happen to make my father choose another husband for me. Giulia, would it not be strange if I never married … because no sooner am I betrothed to one than I must marry someone who will be more grand, more suitable?”

“You will surely marry one day.”

“Then I shall have a lover … even as you have.”

“Husbands are not always lovers, my dear. And you have a long way to go before you are as I am.”

Giulia put her face close to Lucrezia’s and smiled her most secretive smile. “I will tell you a secret. The Pope is more than my lover. He is the father of the child I carry within me.”

“Oh, Giulia! So you are to have a child!”

Giulia nodded. “That was why I was so angry when that vagabond said what he did. I believe it is becoming known. That means that some of our servants are more inquisitive than they should be … and too talkative.”

“Do not punish them for that, Giulia,” said Lucrezia. “It is natural that they should be so.”

“Why should you care whom I punish?”

Lucrezia said: “I do not want to think of punishments. The sun shines so beautifully on the piazza, does it not, and were not my father’s apartments quite beautiful? Cesare and Giovanni will soon be home, and I shall have a husband. There is so much to make me happy. It is merely that I do not wish to think of anyone’s not being pleased.”

“There are times,” said Giulia, “when you seem so simple; and there are times when you seem so very difficult to understand.”

Lucrezia was in her apartment at the Palace of Santa Maria, and her slaves and women were helping her to dress. One fastened the ribbon of her gown while another set a jeweled ornament in her hair.

The arrangements for her marriage had advanced considerably; Don Gasparo, the rejected suitor, had been placated with a gift of three thousand ducats; and the whole of Italy was talking of the Borgia-Sforza alliance. Some saw in this a threat to their security, and della Rovere had decided he would be safer out of Rome. Ferrante of Aragon was disturbed by the alliance and waited apprehensively for what it would bring forth.

There was no doubt in Lucrezia’s mind that this betrothal had reached a stage which none of the others had, and it seemed almost certain that she would marry Giovanni Sforza.

So, when a page knocked for admission and told one of her attendants that a noble gentleman had arrived at the palace and was asking to see her, Lucrezia immediately thought that Giovanni Sforza had come.

This was wrong of him, of course. He should not come informally; there would be a ceremonial procession into the city; the Pope’s daughter and her betrothed husband could not meet like any serving man and maid; but it would be pleasant and so romantic to do so. She smoothed the folds of her brocade gown and looked at her reflection in the polished metal mirror. She was beautiful; she longed to partake of that sort of love about which Giulia talked.

She said: “Tell him I will receive him.”

But even as she turned, the visitor stood in the doorway and the sight of him made Lucrezia forget the romantic longing she had had to see her future husband.

“Cesare!” she cried, and forgetting all ceremony she ran to him and threw herself into her brother’s arms.

She heard his low laughter, laughter of triumph, of passion, of something she did not understand but loved. She took his hand and kissed it many times.

“You are happy to see me, Lucrezia?”

“It has been a long time,” she cried.

“You thought of me now and then?”

“Every day, Cesare, every day of my life. I never knelt before the Madonna in my room without mentioning your name.”

Cesare was looking impatiently at the women ranged about her. It was as though a new element was in the room, dominating all others; the women looked different; they stood like creatures who had been turned to stone. Yet they almost cringed. Lucrezia remembered how, long ago in the nursery in their mother’s house, the slaves and serving men and women had been afraid of Cesare.

She said: “Leave us. My brother and I have much of which we wish to talk, and that is for our ears alone.”

They did not need to be told twice.

Brother and sister twined their arms about each other and Cesare drew her to the window. “I would look at you,” he said. “Why, you have changed, my Lucrezia.”

There was anxiety in her eyes. “Cesare, you are not displeased with the change?”

Cesare kissed her. “It delights me,” he said.

“But you must tell me of yourself. You have been out in the world. You are an Archbishop. That sounds strange. My brother Cesare, Archbishop of Valencia. I shall have to be very demure when I am with you. I must remember that you are a holy man of the Church. But Cesare! You do not look like an Archbishop! This doublet of yours! I declare it is stitched with gold. And what a little tonsure. A simple priest has more than that.”

His eyes blazed suddenly; he clenched his fists, and Lucrezia saw that he was shaking with rage.

“Do not talk of these matters! Lucrezia, I demand that you stop. Archbishop of Valencia! Do I look like an Archbishop? I tell you, Lucrezia, I will not be forced to continue this life. I was never meant for the Church.”

“No, Cesare, you were not, but …”

“But one of us must go into the Church. One of us, and that one must be myself. I am the eldest but I am the one who must stand aside for my brother. He will soon be home. One imagines the preparations there will be for him. Giovanni, Duke of Gandia! Our father cares more for his little toe than for the whole of my body.”

“It is not true,” she cried, distressed. “It is not true.”

“It is true.” His eyes seemed murderous as they were turned upon her. “Do not contradict me, child, when I tell you it is true. I will not remain in the Church, I will not.…”

“You must tell our father,” said Lucrezia soothingly.

“He will not listen. By all the saints, I swear it.” He went to the shrine and, lifting his hands as one who was about to take a solemn oath, he cried: “Holy Mother of God, I swear I will not rest until I am free to lead the life I wish. I will allow no one to bind me, to lead me. I, Cesare Borgia, am my own master from this day on.”

He had changed, Lucrezia realized; he had grown more violent, and she was afraid of him.

She laid her hand pleadingly on his arm. “Cesare,” she said, “you will do what you wish. No one shall lead you. You would not be Cesare if you allowed that.”

He turned to her and all the passion seemed to have left him; but she saw that he still shook with the violence of his emotion.

“My little sister,” he said, “we have been long separated.”

She was anxious to turn the subject away from the Church. “I have heard news of you from time to time, how you excelled in your studies.”

He touched her cheek gently. “Doubtless you have heard many tales of me.”

“Tales of daring deeds.”

“And foolish ones?”

“You have lived as men do live … men who answer to none.”

He smiled tenderly. “You know how to soothe me,” he said. “And they will marry you to that oaf from Pesaro, and doubtless they will take you away from me.”

“We shall visit often, Cesare … all of us, you, Giovanni … Goffredo.…”

His face darkened. “Giovanni,” he cried with a sneer. “He will be on his brilliant campaigns, subduing all Italy with his armies. He will have little time to be with us.”

“Then you will be happy, Cesare, for you always hated him.”

“And you … like the rest … worshipped him. He was very handsome, was he not? Our father doted on him—so much that he forces me to go into the Church when that is where Giovanni should go.”

“Come, tell me about your adventures. You were a gay young man, were you not? All the women of Perugia and Pisa were in love with you, and you, by all accounts, were not indifferent to them.”

“There was not one of them with hair as golden as yours, Lucrezia. There was not one of them who knew how to soothe me with sweet words as you do.”

She laid her cheek against his hand. “But that is natural. We understand each other. We were together when we were little. That is why, of all the men I ever saw, there was not one as beautiful in my eyes as my brother Cesare.”

“What about your brother Giovanni?” he cried.

Lucrezia, remembering the old games of coquetry and rivalry, pretended to consider. “Yes, he was very handsome,” she said; then, noticing the dark look returning to Cesare’s face, she added quickly: “At least I always thought so until I compared him to you.”

“If he were here, you would not say that,” accused Cesare.

“I would, I swear I would. He’ll soon be here. Then I’ll show that I love you best.”

“Who knows what gay manners he has picked up in Spain! Doubtless he will be irresistible to the whole world, as he now is to my father.”

“Let us not talk of him, Cesare. So you have heard that I am to have a husband?”

He laid his hands on her shoulders and looked into her face.

He said slowly: “I would rather talk of my brother Giovanni and his beauty and his triumphs than of such a matter.”

Her eyes were wide and their innocence moved him to a tenderness which was unusual with him.

“Do you not like this alliance with the Sforzas?” she asked. “I heard that the King of Aragon is most displeased. Cesare, perhaps if you are against the match and have good reason … Perhaps if you speak to our father …”

He shook his head.

“Little Lucrezia,” he said quietly, “my dearest sister, no matter whom they chose for your husband, I should hate him.”

It was hot June and everywhere throughout the city banners fluttered. The Sforza lion was side by side with the Borgia bull, and every loggia, every roof, as well as the streets, was filled to see the entry into Rome of the bridegroom whom the Pope had chosen for his daughter.

Giovanni Sforza was twenty-six, and a widower who was of a morose nature and a little suspicious of the bargain which was being offered him.

The thirteen-year-old child who was to be his bride meant nothing to him as such. He had heard that she was beautiful, but he was a cold man, not to be tempted by beauty. The advantages of the match might seem obvious to some, but he did not trust the Borgia Pope. The magnificent dowry which had been promised with the girl—thirty-one thousand ducats—was to be withheld until the consummation of the marriage, and the Pope had strictly laid down the injunction that consummation was not to take place yet because Lucrezia was far too young; and should she die childless, the ducats were to go to her brother Giovanni, the Duke of Gandia.

Sforza was no impetuous youth. He would wait, before congratulating himself, to see whether there was anything about which to be congratulated.

He had a natural timidity which might have been due to the fact that he came of a subordinate branch of the Sforzas of Milan; he was the illegitimate son of Costanzo, the Lord of Cotignolo and Pesaro, but he had nevertheless inherited his father’s estate; he was impecunious, and marriage with the wealthy Borgias seemed an excellent prospect; he was ambitious, and that, could he have trusted the intentions of Alexander, would have made him very happy with the match.

But he could not help feeling uneasy when trumpets and bugles heralded his approach as he came through the Porta del Popolo, whither the Cardinals and high dignitaries had sent important members of their retinues to greet him and welcome him to Rome.

In that procession rode two young men, more magnificently, more elegantly attired than any others. They were two of the most strikingly handsome men Sforza had ever seen, and he guessed by their bearing who they must be. He was thankful that he could cut a fine figure on his Barbary horse, in his rich garments and the gold necklaces which had been lent to him for the occasion.

The younger of these men was the Duke of Gandia, recently returned from Spain. He was very handsome indeed, somewhat solemn at the moment because this was a ceremonial occasion and he, having spent some years at a Spanish Court, had the manners of a Spaniard. Yet he could be gay and lighthearted; that much was obvious.

But it was the elder of the men who demanded and held Sforza’s attention. This was Cesare Borgia, Archbishop of Valencia. He had heard stories of this man which made him shudder to recall them. He too was handsome, but his was a brooding beauty. Certainly he was attractive; he would dominate any scene; Sforza was aware that the women in the streets, who watched the procession from loggia and rooftop, would for the most part focus their interest on this man. What was it about him? He was handsomely dressed; so was his brother. His jewels were glittering; but not more so than his brother’s. Was it the manner in which he held himself? Was it a pride which excelled all pride; a certainty that he was a god among men?

Sforza did not care to pursue the subject. He only knew that if he had a suspicion of Alexander he felt even more uneasy regarding his son.

But now the greeting was friendly; the welcome warm.

Through the Campo di Fiore went the cavalcade, the young men in its center—Cesare, Sforza and Giovanni—across the Bridge of St. Angelo to pause before the Palace of Santa Maria in Portico.

Sforza lifted his eyes. There on the loggia, her hair shining like gold in the glittering sunshine, was a young girl in crimson satin decorated with rubies and pearls. She was gripping a pillar of the loggia and the sunlight rested on her hands adazzle with jewels.

She looked down on her brothers and the man who was to be her husband.

She was thirteen and those about her had not succeeded in robbing her of her romantic imaginings. She smiled and lifted her hands in welcome.

Sforza looked at her grimly. Her youthful beauty did not move him. He was conscious of her brothers on either side of him; and he continued to wonder how far he could trust them and the Pope.

The Palace of Santa Maria was in a feverish state of excitement; there was whispering and shouting, the sound of feet running hither and thither; the dressmakers and hairdressers filled the anteroom; Lucrezia’s chaplain had been with her for so long, preparing her spiritually, that those who must prepare her physically were chafing with impatience.

The heat was intense—it was June—and Lucrezia felt crushed by the weight of her wedding gown heavily embroidered with gold thread and decorated with jewels which had cost fifteen thousand ducats. Her golden hair was caught in a net ornamented with glittering precious stones. Adriana and Giulia had personally insisted on painting her face and plucking her eyebrows that she might appear as an elegant lady of fashion.

Lucrezia had never felt so excited in the whole of her life. Her dress may have been too heavy for comfort on this hot day, but she cared little for that, for she delighted in adorning herself.

She was thinking of the ceremony, of the people who would crowd to see her as she crossed from the Palace to the Vatican, of herself, serenely beautiful, the heroine of this splendid occasion, with her pages and slaves to strew garlands of sweetsmelling flowers before her as she walked. She gave scarcely a thought to her bridegroom. Marriage was not, she gathered from what she had seen of those near her, a matter about which one should concern oneself overmuch. Giovanni Sforza seemed old, and he did not smile very often; his eyes did not flash like Cesare’s and Giovanni’s. He was different; he was solemn and looked a little severe. But the marriage was not to be consummated and, Giulia had told her, she need not be bothered with him if she did not want to be. She would continue to stay in Rome—so for Lucrezia marriage meant merely a brilliant pageant with herself as the central figure.

Giulia clapped her hands suddenly and said: “Bring in the slave that Madonna Lucrezia may see her.”

The servants bowed and very shortly a dwarf Negress was standing before Lucrezia. She was resplendent in a gold dress, her hair caught in a jeweled net, and her costume was an exact replica of her dazzlingly beautiful mistress’s. Lucrezia cried out in delight, for this Negress’s black hair and skin made that of Lucrezia seem more fair than ever.

“She will carry your train,” said Adriana. “It will be both amusing and delightful to watch.”

Lucrezia agreed and turning to a table on which was a bowl of sweetmeats, she picked up one of these and slipped it into the Negress’s mouth.

The dark eyes glistened with the affection which most of the servants—and particularly the slaves—had for Madonna Lucrezia.

“Come,” said Adriana sternly, “there is much to do yet. Madalenna, bring the jeweled pomanders.”

As Madalenna made for the door she caught her breath suddenly, for a man had entered, and men should not enter a lady’s chamber when she was being dressed; but the lord Cesare obeyed no rules, no laws but his own.

“My lord …” began Adriana, but Cesare silenced her with a frown.

“Cesare, what do you think of my dress?” cried Lucrezia. “Tell me whether you admire me now.”

Cesare ignored her and, looking straight at Adriana, said: “I wish to speak to my sister … alone.”

“But, my lord, the time is short.”

“I wish to speak to her alone,” he repeated. “Do I not make my meaning clear?”

Even Adriana quailed before this arrogant young man of eighteen. Rumors of his life at the universities of Perugia and Pisa had reached her, and the strangeness of the stories had made her shudder. Accidents often happened to those who opposed this arrogant son of the Pope and she was not so powerful that she could risk offending him.

“Since you ask it, it shall be,” she temporized, “but my lord, I beg of you remember that we must not arrive late at the Vatican.”

He nodded his head, and Adriana signed to all the attendants to leave with her.

When they had gone Lucrezia cried: “Cesare, there is little time. I should be prepared.…”

“You should be prepared to give me a little of your time. Have you forgotten, now that you have a bridegroom, how you swore that you would never love any as you loved me?”

“I do not forget, Cesare. I never shall.” She was thinking of herself crossing the square, imagining the cries of admiration; she could smell the incense and the scent of flowers.

“You are not thinking of me,” said Cesare. “Who does? My father thwarts me, and you … you are as light-minded as any harlot.”

“But Cesare, this is my wedding day.”

“It is little to rejoice in. Sforza! Do you consider him a man? Yet I would rather see you married to him, than to some, for I swear he is little more than a eunuch.”

“Cesare, you must not be jealous.”

Cesare laughed. He came to her and gripped her neck in the gesture she remembered so well. She cried out in alarm because she was afraid for her jeweled net.

“The marriage shall not be consummated.” He laughed. “I made our father see the wisdom of that. Why, who knows, if the scene changes these Sforzas may not be worthy of our friendship, and then it may well be that the Holy Father will wish he had not been so eager to get his daughter married.”

“Cesare, why are you upset about this marriage? You know I have to marry, and it makes no difference to my love for you. I could never love any as I love you.”

He continued his hold on her neck; his fingers would mark it—they always did—and she longed to beg him to release his hold, but she dared not. She enjoyed being with him as she always did, but now, as ever, that excitement which he aroused had its roots in a certain fear which she did not understand and which repelled her while it enticed.

“I believe that to be so,” he said. “No matter what happens to you or to me … there will always be this bond between us. Lucrezia and Cesare … we are one, little sister, and no husband of yours, nor wife of mine could ever change that.”

“Yes, yes,” she said breathlessly. “It is true. I know it is true.”

“I shall not be at the supper party after the ceremony,” said Cesare.

“Oh, but you must, brother. I so look forward to dancing with you.”

Cesare looked down at his Archbishop’s robes. “It is not meet, sister, that men of the Church should dance. You will be dancing with your brother, the Duke of Gandia. He will make a splendid partner, I doubt not.”

“Cesare, you will surely be there!”

“At your nuptial celebration. Certainly I shall not. Do you think I can bear to see you making merry at such a time?”

“Giovanni will be there, and mayhap Goffredo.…”

“One day, sister, you will understand that my feeling for you is stronger than anything Giovanni could feel for anyone.”

There were shouts in the square and Cesare strode to the window.

Lucrezia stood beside him, but she could no longer feel the same pleasure in all the pomp which was being prepared for her, because she was deeply aware of the clenching and unclenching of Cesare’s hands and the angry expression on his face.

“He comes,” said Cesare. “The handsome Duke of Gandia.”

“He is to conduct me to the Vatican,” said Lucrezia. “I should be ready by now. Oh, we shall be late. Cesare, we must bring back Adriana and Giulia. Giovanni is here and I am not ready.”

But Adriana, hearing the sounds of Giovanni’s approach, decided that it was necessary for her to risk Cesare’s anger, and she came into the room followed by Giulia and Lucrezia’s attendants.

“The Duke is here,” she said. “Come now, let me see if your net is in place. Ah yes, and where is the black dwarf? Here, dwarf. Take Madonna Lucrezia’s train and stand there.…”

Cesare watched the preparations frowning, and Lucrezia aware of him felt that his jealousy was clouding this happy day.

Giovanni entered.

He had changed a great deal since he had gone to Spain. Tall and very elegant, he had led a life of debauchery but at seventeen this had left very little mark on his face. He wore a golden beard which softened the sensual cruelty of his mouth, and his eyes, pale, transparent and so like Lucrezia’s own, though beautifully shaped and dark-lashed, lacked the serene gentleness of his sister’s and were in contrast cold and hard. But he had that Borgia fascination which he had inherited from his father, and in his fine colorful garments, which consisted of a Turkish robe à la Française so long that it swept the floor, made of curling cloth of gold with immense pearls sewn into the sleeves and a cap adorned with an enormous gem, he was a magnificent spectacle. Jewels sparkled on his person and about his neck was a long necklace entirely composed of rubies and pearls.

Lucrezia caught her breath as she looked at him.

“Why, Giovanni,” she cried, “you look magnificent.”

For a moment she forgot Cesare glowering there. To him it seemed symbolic of his father’s wish to humiliate him. Here before Lucrezia stood her two brothers, the rivals; and one, through the grace and bounty of their father, could come like a prince while the other must wear the comparatively drab garments of the Church.

Cesare felt one of those moods of rage sweeping over him. When they possessed him he wanted to put his hands about the throats of those who fostered these moods, and squeeze and squeeze that he might soothe his hurt vanity by their screams for mercy.

He could not squeeze that elegant throat. There had been a hundred times in his life when he had longed to. One must not touch the Pope’s beloved. One day, he thought, I shall be unable to restrain myself.

Giovanni, understanding the mood of his brother, looked slyly from him to Lucrezia. “Ah, my little sister, my beloved Lucrezia, you say I look magnificent, but you … you are like a goddess. I do not believe you can be my pretty little sister. No human being could possess such beauty. How you sparkle! How you glitter! Even my lord Archbishop looks the brighter for your closeness to him. I hear you are not coming to our father’s party, brother. Mayhap it is as well. The somber garb of you men of the Church is apt to have a sobering effect, and there must be naught but gaiety this night.”

“Silence!” cried Cesare. “Silence, I say!”

Giovanni raised his eyebrows and Adriana cried: “My lord, we must go. As it is, we shall be late.”

Cesare turned and strode out of the room. His attendant, who had been waiting outside the apartment, prepared to follow him. Cesare turned to the boy—he was little more. “You smile,” he said. “Why?”

“My lord?”

Cesare had the boy by the ear. The pain was almost unbearable.

“Why?” screamed Cesare. “I asked why.”

“My lord … I do not smile.”

Cesare knocked the boy’s head against the wall. “You would lie then. You have been listening, and what you overheard amused you.”

“My lord … my lord!”

Cesare took the boy roughly by the arm and pushed him toward the staircase. The boy lifted his hands as he fell and Cesare heard his screams as he tumbled headlong down the stairs. He listened, his eyes narrowed, his mouth slightly turned down. The cries of others in pain never failed to soothe the pain within himself, the pain born of frustration and fear that there were some in the world who did not recognize him as of supreme importance.

Led by her brother Giovanni, Lucrezia entered the Pope’s new apartment at the Vatican. The apartments were already crowded by all the most important people of Rome and representatives from the courts of other states and dukedoms.

Lucrezia had forgotten Cesare in the excitement of crossing the square, from the Palace to the Vatican; the shouts of the people were still in her ears and she could still smell the scent of the flowers which had been strewn in her path. And here on the Papal throne was her father, magnificent in his white and gold vestments, his eyes shining with love and pride as they rested upon her. Those eyes, however, quickly strayed to his beloved and beautiful Giulia who stood on one side of Lucrezia; on the other was another beautiful young girl, Lella Orsini, who had recently married Giulia’s brother Angelo Farnese.

The bridegroom came forward. He looked almost shabby compared with the glory of that other Giovanni, the bride’s brother. Giovanni Sforza, conscious of lacking the Spanish elegance of the Duke of Gandia, was remembering that even the necklace he wore about his neck was borrowed.

As for Lucrezia, she was scarcely conscious of him. To her, this marriage was nothing more than a brilliant masque. Sforza must be there because without him she could not play her part, and since there was to be no consummation for a long time she knew that life was going on exactly as it always had.

They knelt together on a cushion at the feet of Alexander and when the notary asked Sforza if he would take Lucrezia as his wife, the bridegroom answered in loud and ringing tones: “I will with a good heart!” And Lucrezia echoed his words. The Bishop put the rings on their fingers while a nobleman held a naked sword over their heads; and after that the Bishop preached a touching sermon concerning the sanctity of marriage, to which neither Lucrezia nor her husband paid a great deal of attention.

Alexander himself was impatient. There were too many such ceremonies in his life, and he was eager to proceed with the merrymaking.

Now celebrations began, and there were many churchmen present who wondered at the ease with which the Pope could cast aside his role of Holy Father and become the jocular host who is determined that all shall rejoice at his daughter’s wedding.

None laughed more heartily than the Pope at the somewhat bawdy jokes which were circulated and which were considered to be a necessary part of wedding celebrations. A comedy was performed for the enjoyment of the company, obscene songs were sung; riddles were asked and answered, and all these had a sly allusion to the married state. Hundreds of pounds of sweetmeats were distributed among the guests—the Pope and all the Cardinals being served first, followed by the bride and bridegroom, the ladies, the prelates and the remaining guests. The fun was hilarious when the sweets were dropped down the bodices of the women’s gowns and there were shrieks of delight as these were retrieved. When the company was tired of this game the remains of the sweetmeats were thrown from the windows and the crowds who were waiting below scrambled for them.

Later the Pope gave a dinner-party in the pontifical hall and, when the company had feasted, the dancing began.

The bride sat beside her husband, who glowered at the dancers; he disliked such entertainments and was longing for this one to end. Not so Lucrezia; she longed for her husband to take her hand and lead her in the dance.

She glanced sideways at him. He seemed very old, she thought, very stern. “Do you not like to dance?” she asked him.

“I do not like to dance,” he answered.

“But does not the music inspire you to do so?”

“Nothing inspires me to do so.”

Her feet were tapping, and her father was watching her; his face was a little flushed with so much feasting and merry-making, and she knew that he understood how she was feeling. She saw him glance at her brother Giovanni, who had interpreted the glance. In a moment he was beside her.

“Brother,” he said, “since you do not partner my sister in the dance, I will do so.”

Lucrezia looked at her husband, thinking that perhaps now she would have to ask his permission; she was a little apprehensive, knowing that neither of her brothers would allow any to stand in the way of what they wanted to do.

She need not have worried. Giovanni Sforza was quite indifferent as to whether his wife danced or stayed at his side.

“Come,” said the Duke of Gandia. “A bride should dance at her wedding.”

So he led her into the very center of the dancers and holding her hand, he said: “Oh, my sister, you are the fairest lady of the ball, which is as it should be.”

“I verily believe, dear brother,” she said, “that you are the handsomest of the men.”

The Duke bowed his head and his eyes gleamed at her, amused and passionate as they had been in the nursery days.

“Cesare would be beside himself with envy if he saw us dance together.”

“Giovanni,” she said quickly, “you should not provoke him.”

“ ’Tis one of the joys of my life,” he murmured, “provoking Cesare.”

“Why so, Giovanni?”

“Someone must provoke him, and everyone else, except our father, would seem to be afraid to.”

“Giovanni, you are not afraid of anything.”

“Not I,” said Giovanni. “I would not be afraid of your bridegroom if he, being jealous to see his bride look so lovingly at me, should challenge me to a duel.”

“He will make no such challenge. I fancy he is glad to be rid of me.”

“By the saints, then perhaps I should run him through for his neglect of my lovely sister. Oh, Lucrezia, how happy I am to be with you once more! Have you forgotten the days in our mother’s house … the quarrels, the dances? Ah, those Spanish dances. Do you remember them?”

“I do, Giovanni.”

“And do you not think them more inspiring, more full of meaning than these of Italy?”

“Yes, Giovanni.”

“Then we will dance them, you and I.…”

“Giovanni, dare we?”

“We Borgias dare anything, sister.” He drew her to him and there was light in his eyes which reminded her of Cesare’s. “Do not forget,” he went on, “that though you have married a Sforza, you are a Borgia … always a Borgia.”

“No,” she answered, and she was breathless with sudden excitement. “I shall never forget it.”

One by one the other dancers fell away from them, so that after a while there was none dancing but the Duke of Gandia and his sister. The dances were those of Spain—throbbing with passion, the sort of dances which a bride and bridegroom might have performed together, portraying love, desire, fulfillment.

Lucrezia’s long hair escaped from its net in the abandonment of the dance; and there were many who whispered: “How strange that the sister and brother should dance thus while the bridegroom looks on!”

The Pope watched with benign affection. These were his best-loved children, and it did not seem strange to him to see them dance thus: Lucrezia expectant, on the brink of womanhood, and Giovanni with the light of a demon in his eyes, and a malicious glance over his shoulder for the dull bridegroom—and for another perhaps, another who wished he was present to watch this almost ritual dance with their sister.

Giovanni Sforza yawned in his indifference. Yet he was less indifferent than he seemed. Not that he had any deep feelings for the golden-haired child who was his wife; but it had occurred to him that the Borgias were a strange family, alien to Rome; their Spanish blood made them that; and he felt faintly uneasy sitting there, and although he was in a semistupor through too much food and wine, too much heat, too many celebrations, he was conscious of a warning voice within him: “Beware of these Borgias. They are a strange, unnatural people. One must be prepared for them to do anything … however startling, however strange. Beware.… Beware of the Borgias!”