Madonna of the Seven Hills

LUCREZIA MARRIED

Those weeks which followed her wedding were full of pleasure for Lucrezia. She saw little of her husband, and her brothers were constantly with her. The old rivalry was revived and, although Lucrezia was aware that there was now an even more dangerous element in this than there had been in nursery days, she could not help being stimulated by it.

It was an unusual situation; the bride and bridegroom indifferent to each other, while the bride’s brothers strutted before her, as though they were trying to woo her, each trying to persuade her that he was a better man than the other.

The brothers invaded Lucrezia’s apartments day and night; each planned spectacles in which he played the leading part and Lucrezia that of honored guest.

Adriana protested, but Giovanni ignored her, and Cesare’s eyes blazed with anger. “The insolence of the woman is beyond endurance!” he cried, and there was a threat in his words.

Giulia remonstrated with Lucrezia.

“This is a strange mode of behavior,” she declared. “Your brothers attend you as though you were something more than a sister.”

“You do not understand,” Lucrezia explained. “We were together in the nursery.”

“Brothers and sisters often are.”

“Our childhood was different. We sensed the mystery which surrounded us. We lived in our mother’s house, but we did not then know who our father was. We loved each other … we were necessary to each other, and then we were parted for so long. That is why we love more than most families.”

“I would rather see you take a lover.”

Lucrezia smiled gently; she was too good-hearted to tell Giulia that she understood the reason for her concern; the Pope still doted on her and she remained his favorite mistress, but all lovers of members of the Borgia family must be jealous of that family’s feelings for its own members. Giulia was thinking that, now Cesare and Giovanni were in Rome, the love their father bore them and his daughter far exceeded that which he had for herself, and she was frankly jealous.

Lucrezia was fond of Giulia; she understood her feelings; but the bond between herself and her brothers could not be broken by anyone.

Meanwhile the weeks passed. She would go to the Campo di Fiore to watch Giovanni joust; then Cesare staged a bull-fight in that same spot, himself acting as the brave matador. He arranged that there were crowds to watch, and in the place of honor, where she might miss nothing, was Lucrezia, to tremble when she saw him face death, to exult when she saw him triumph.

All her life Lucrezia would never forget that occasion; the moment of fear when she saw the bull charge and heard the deep sigh of the crowd; she herself had almost swooned with fear, in one terrible second visualizing a world without Cesare. But Cesare was supreme; light as a dancer he had stepped aside as the angry bull thundered past. How handsome he looked! How graceful! He might, thought Lucrezia, have been dancing the old farraca, that dance in which a man mimed his play with the bull, so unconcerned did he seem. She would never dance the farraca herself nor see others dance it without recalling this moment of fear and exultation; she would always remember the hot sun in the Campo di Fiore and the realization that Cesare was to her the most important person in the world.

She had sat there seemingly serene, yet she was praying all the time: “Madonna, keep him safe. Holy Mother of God, do not let him be taken from me.”

Her prayers were answered. He killed his bull and came to stand before his sister, that all present should know that it was for her he fought.

She took his hand and kissed it and her eyes had lost their mildness as she raised them to his. She had never seen him look quite so happy as he did then. He had cast aside all resentment; he had forgotten that he was an Archbishop and Giovanni a Duke. The crowd was acclaiming him, and Lucrezia was telling him of the depth and breadth of her love for him.

Lucrezia planned a ball in honor of her brave matador.

“And what of the hero of the joust?” demanded Giovanni.

“For him also,” said Lucrezia fondly.

She wanted them to be together; it was only when she was conscious of their intense rivalry that she could feel she was back in her childhood.

So at the ball she danced with Giovanni while Cesare glowered, and with Cesare while Giovanni looked on with smoldering jealousy. Often the Pope would be present on such occasions and there was astonishment among the spectators that the Holy Father could look on smiling while his sons and daughter danced the strangely erotic Spanish dances, and that he could witness the jealous passion of these two brothers—and the sister’s pleasure in it—with such tolerant amusement.

Lucrezia would be seen riding between her brothers to Monte Mario to watch the noblemen trying out their falcons, laughing, laying wagers as to which of the birds would win the prize.

As for Giovanni Sforza, he lived like an outsider in this strange household. The marriage was not yet to be consummated. At that he shrugged his shoulders. He was not a man deeply interested in such pleasures, and his needs could be supplied by the occasional summoning of a courtesan. But there were occasions when he resented the continual presence of those two overbearing young men, and on one of these he ventured to protest to his wife. She had returned with her brothers from riding and when she went to her apartment he followed her there; he turned and waved a dismissal at her attendants. They obeyed the signal and did not enter the room.

Lucrezia smiled tentatively at him. Wishing to live on good terms with all, she was always polite to her husband.

Sforza then said to his wife: “This is a strange life you lead. You are constantly in the company of one of your brothers—or both.”

“Is it strange?” she asked. “They are my brothers.”

“Your conduct is talked of throughout Rome.”

Lucrezia’s eyes were wide with surprise.

“Do you not understand what is being said?”

“I have not heard it.”

“One day,” said Sforza, “you will be my wife in very truth. I would have you remember that that day must surely come. I would ask you to see less of your brothers.”

“They would never allow it,” said Lucrezia. “Even if I wished it.”

There was a sound of laughter from without and the brothers entered the room. They stood side by side, legs thrust apart, and it was not their obvious strength and vigor which sent a twinge of alarm through Sforza. He felt then that there was something to fear which was as yet unseen, and that any normal man who made an enemy of them must certainly go in fear of his life.

They were not scowling, and Sforza felt it might have been better if they were. They were smiling, and Lucrezia and her husband might not have been in the room, for all the notice the brothers took of them.

Giovanni said, as his hand rested lightly on his sword: “This man our sister has married … it has come to my ears that he resents our presence in her house.”

“He should have his tongue cut out if he has made such a monstrous suggestion,” drawled Cesare.

“And doubtless will,” added Giovanni, half drawing his sword from its sheath and letting it fall back again. “Who is this man?”

“A bastard son of the tyrant of Pesaro, I have heard.”

“And Pesaro, what is Pesaro?”

“But a small town on the Adriatic coast.”

“A beggar … little more, eh? I remember he came to his wedding in a borrowed necklace.”

“What should we do to such a one if he became insolent?”

Giovanni Borgia laughed softly. “He will not become insolent, brother. Beggar he may be, bastard he is, but he is not such a fool as all that.”

Then they laughed and turned to the door.

Lucrezia and Sforza heard them shouting and laughing as they went out. Lucrezia ran to the window. It was a strange sight to see the Borgia brothers walking together like friends.

Sforza was still standing where he had been when the door had opened. During the time when the brothers had been speaking he had felt unable to move, so strongly had he been aware of an overwhelming sense of evil.

Lucrezia had turned from the window and was looking at him. There was compassion in her gaze and the compassion was for him; for the first time since she had seen him Lucrezia was aware of some feeling for him, and he for her.

He knew that she too was conscious of that evil which had seemed to emanate from her brothers.

As the brothers walked away they knew that Lucrezia was at the window watching them.

Cesare said: “That will doubtless make the fool think twice before he speaks slightingly of us again.”

“Did you see him quail before us?” said Giovanni with a laugh. “I tell you, brother, it was all I could do to prevent myself drawing my sword and giving him a prick or two.”

“You showed great restraint, brother.”

“You also.”

Giovanni glanced sideways at Cesare. Then he said: “Strange looks come our way. Have you noticed?”

“We have rarely been seen walking thus amicably together. That is the reason.”

“Before you begin to scowl at me, Cesare, let me say this: There are times when you and I should stand together. All Borgias must do this sometimes. You hate me as my father’s favorite, for my dukedom and the bride I shall have. The bride is no beauty, if that is any consolation to you. She has a long horse-face. You would fancy her no more than I do.”

“I would take her and the dukedom of Gandia in exchange for my Archbishopric.”

“That you would, Cesare, that you would. But I will keep her, and my dukedom. I would not be an Archbishop even though the Papal throne was to be mine in the future.”

“Our father has a long life before him.”

“I pray Heaven that it is so. But, Archbishop … nay, do not glower so … Archbishop, let us continue this friendship just for one hour. We have our common enemies. Let us consider them as we did the Sforza a short while ago.”

“And these enemies?”

“The accursed Farnese. Is it not a fact that that woman, Giulia Farnese, demands what she will of our father and it is granted her?”

“ ’Tis true enough,” murmured Cesare.

“Brother, shall we allow this state of affairs to continue?”

“I agree with you, my lord Duke, that it would be well to put an end to it.”

“Then, my lord Archbishop, let us put our heads together and bring about that happy state of affairs.”

“How so?”

“She is but a woman, and there are other women. I have in my suite a nun from Valencia. She has beauty, grace and the charm of a nun. She has given me great pleasure. I think I shall put her to the service of my father. I have a Moorish slave also, a dusky beauty. They make a satisfactory pair—the nun and the slave; the one all vestal reluctance, the other … insatiably passionate. We will go to our father, you and I, and we will tell him of the virtues of these two. He will wish to share … and sharing, who knows, he may forget the beautiful Giulia. At least she will not be the sole playmate of his leisure hours. There is safety in numbers; it is when there is one—and rarely any other—that one sees danger ahead.”

“Let us visit him now. Let us tell him of your nun and your slave. He will at least be eager to see them and, if they are all you say … well, it might be that we can loosen the hold of the Farnese on our Holy Father.”

The two young men went across the square to the Vatican while many eyes followed them, marvelling at this new friendship.

It was said in the streets that one marriage begot another, and this was indeed the case. Giovanni was to make a Spanish marriage; Cesare was for the Church and could have no marriage; Lucrezia was married to Giovanni Sforza; now it was the turn of little Goffredo.

Vannozza, happy with her husband, Carlo Canale, was dizzy with joy. Often her children came to see her and nothing delighted her more than to give intimate little parties for their entertainment. Her talk was mostly of her children; my son, the Duke, my son, the Archbishop, my daughter, the Countess of Pesaro. And now she would be able to talk equally proudly of her Goffredo. He would be a Duke or a Prince very shortly as the Pope was to make a grand marriage for him.

This showed clearly, thought Vannozza, that Alexander no longer doubted that Goffredo was his son. But this was not so; Alexander continued to doubt. Yet he was of the opinion that the more brilliant the marriages he could make for his children, the better for the Borgias generally; he wished he had a dozen sons; therefore it was expedient to thrust aside all doubt and, at least in the eyes of the world, accept Goffredo as his.

The moment was propitious to arrange a new Borgia marriage. Ferrante, the King of Naples, had watched with concern the growing friendship between the Vatican and the Sforzas of Milan.

Alexander, sensualist though he was, was also a clever diplomat. He preferred to be on good terms with the rival houses of Milan and Naples. Moreover, Spain was naturally favorable to the ruling house of Naples, which was Spanish in origin and maintained the Spanish customs at the Court.

Ferrante was aware of the Pope’s desire for friendship and had sent his son, Federico, to Rome with proposals to lay before the Holy Father.

Ferrante’s elder son, Alfonso, who was heir to the throne of Naples, had a natural daughter, Sanchia, and Ferrante’s suggestion was that Sanchia should be betrothed to the Pope’s youngest son. That Goffredo was but eleven years and Sanchia sixteen was no handicap; nor was her illegitimacy, for illegitimacy was not considered an important stigma in fifteenth-century Italy, although of course legitimate children took precedence over natural ones. Goffredo himself was illegitimate; therefore it seemed a good match.

Little Goffredo was delighted. He came hurrying to Lucrezia, as soon as he heard the news, to impart it to her.

“I, sister, I too am to be married. Is not that great good news? I am to go to Naples and marry a Princess.”

Lucrezia embraced him and wished him happiness, and the little boy ran about the apartment dancing with an imaginary bride, going through the ceremony which he had seen Lucrezia perform with her husband.

Cesare and Giovanni called on their sister, and Goffredo ran to them and told them the news. Lucrezia knew that they had already heard; she was aware of this because of Cesare’s sullen looks. This was another reminder that he was the only one of them who must remain unmarried.

“What a bridegroom you will be!” said Giovanni. “An eleven-year-old bridegroom of a sixteen-year-old bride who is, unless rumor lies … but no matter. Your Sanchia is a beauty—a great beauty, my brother—so whatever else she may be she will be forgiven.”

Goffredo began to walk about the apartment on his toes to make himself look taller. He stopped suddenly, his eyes questioning; then he looked toward Cesare.

“Everybody is pleased,” he said, “except my lord brother.”

“You know why he is ill-pleased, do you not?” cried Giovanni. “It is because as a holy man of the Church there can be no bride for him.”

Goffredo’s face puckered suddenly, and he went to Cesare. “If you wish for a bride, my lord,” he said, “I would give you mine; for I should find no pleasure in her if by possessing her I should cause you pain.”

Cesare’s eyes glinted as he looked at the boy. He had not known until that moment how firmly Goffredo admired him. The little boy standing there clearly implied that he thought Cesare the most wonderful person in the world; and with Lucrezia and his young brother, to admire him thus, Cesare felt suddenly happy.

He did not care for Giovanni’s taunts. He gloried in his rivalry with Giovanni because he had made up his mind that one day Giovanni was going to pay for every insult, just as any other man or woman would.

“You are a good boy, Goffredo,” he said.

“Cesare, you believe I am your brother … entirely your brother, do you not?”

Cesare embraced the boy and assured him that he did; and Lucrezia watching saw all the cruelty and the hardness leave her brother’s face. Like that, she thought, my brother Cesare is surely the most beautiful person in the world.

Lucrezia longed for peace between them all. They were all together now, and Cesare was delighted by the artless words of the boy. If Giovanni would only join then in their happy circle, they could dispense with rivalry; they could be as she longed to see them, in complete harmony.

“I will play wedding songs on my lute, and we will sing,” she cried. “We will pretend we are already at Goffredo’s wedding.”

She clapped her hands and a slave brought her lute; then she sat on cushions, her golden hair falling about her shoulders; and as her fingers touched the lute she began to sing.

Goffredo stood behind her, and laying his hands on her shoulders sang with her.

The brothers watched them, listening; and for a short while peace was with them all.

Now there was more merrymaking at the Vatican in honor of the formal betrothal of Goffredo and Sanchia of Aragon which took place in the Pope’s apartments, Federico, Prince of Altamura and uncle of the bride, taking her place. This was conducted in the presence of the Pope with all the ceremony of a true marriage.

There was a great deal of merriment because little Goffredo as the husband looked so incongruous beside the Prince who was taking the place of the bride, and ribald comments soon broke out; nor were these checked by the presence of the Holy Father who in fact laughed more heartily than anybody and even added to the quips.

There was nothing Alexander liked better than what he called a good joke, and by good he meant bawdy. Federico, finding himself the butt of all the amusement and being something of an actor, then began to amuse the company by playing the part of bride with such fluttering of eyelashes and coy gestures that what took place in the Vatican was more like a masque than a solemn ceremony.

Federico continued with his acting at the feasting and balls which followed; it was a joke of which no one seemed to tire, and the fun was increased when a member of Federico’s retinue took an opportunity of whispering to the Pope that he would be even more amused if he had seen Sanchia.

“How so?” asked Alexander. “I have heard she is a beauty.”

“She has beauty, Holiness, to make all others seem plain beside her. But our Prince behaves as a coy virgin. There is nothing coy about Madonna Sanchia … and nothing of the virgin either. She has had a host of lovers.”

The Pope’s eyes glistened with merriment. “Then this makes the joke even better,” he said. He called Cesare and Giovanni to him. “Did you hear that, my sons? Did you hear what was said of Madonna Sanchia, our coy virgin?”

The brothers laughed heartily at the joke.

“I deeply regret,” said Giovanni, “that young Goffredo is to go to Naples, and that Sanchia will not join him here.”

“Ah, my son, I should not give much for poor Goffredo’s chances if she set eyes on you.”

“We should be rivals for the lady,” said Cesare lightly.

“A pleasant state of affairs indeed!” said the Pope. “Mayhap since she is such an obliging lady she would be wife to three brothers.”

“And to their father mayhap,” added Giovanni.

This amused the Pope immensely, and his eyes rested fondly on Giovanni.

Cesare decided then that if ever Sanchia came to Rome she should be his mistress before she was Giovanni’s.

Then his eyes narrowed and he said sharply: “So our little Goffredo is to be a husband. I myself am to be denied that pleasure. It is strange that Goffredo should be married before you, brother.”

Giovanni’s eyes flashed hatred, for he immediately understood Cesare’s meaning.

Alexander was saddened. He turned to Giovanni. “Alas,” he said, “you must soon return to Spain for your marriage, my dear son.”

“My marriage will wait,” said Giovanni sullenly.

“Ah, my son, time does not stand still. I shall be well pleased when I hear that your wife is the mother of a fine boy.”

“In time … in time,” said Giovanni shortly.

But Cesare was smiling secretly. Alexander’s mouth was set along firm lines. When his ambition was concerned he could be adamant, and as Cesare had been forced to the Church so Giovanni would be forced to go to his Spanish wife.

It seemed to Cesare an even better joke than Federico’s miming of Madonna Sanchia. Once he had longed to be in Giovanni’s shoes that he might go to Spain to receive great honors including a Spanish dukedom; he had been forced to stay behind and enter the Church. Now Giovanni wanted nothing so much as to stay in Rome, and he would be forced to leave as certainly as Cesare had been forced into the Church.

Cesare laughed inwardly as he watched his brother’s sullen looks.

Giovanni was angry. Life in Rome suited his temperament far better than the Spanish mode of living. In Spain a man of rank was stifled by etiquette; and Giovanni had no fancy for the pallid, long-faced bride, Maria Enriques, whom he had inherited from his dead brother. It was true that Maria was a cousin of the King of Spain and that marriage with her would forge a strong link with the Spanish Royal house and secure for him royal protection. But what did Giovanni care for that? He wanted to be in Rome, which he thought of as home.

He would rather be recognized as the son of the Pope than cousin, by marriage, to the King of Spain. He had felt homesick while he was away. He had imagined himself riding about Rome, and, cynic though he was concerning most things, tears would come to his eyes when he thought of entering the Porta del Popolo and watching the races to the Piazza Venezia in Carnival week. There seemed nothing like it in Spain—the Spanish were a melancholy people compared with the gay Italians. He had found great pleasure and sadness in thinking of the crowds, in the grand stand in the Piazza del Popolo, who had assembled to watch the race of riderless horses. How he had enjoyed those races, how he had shouted with glee to see the frightened beasts let loose, with pieces of metal tied to them to make a noise and frighten them still further as they galloped, the devilish type of spurs fastened midway between withers and shoulders, leaded and pear-shaped, the heavy end having seven spikes which prodded the horse at every step! The terrified horses, as they thundered along the Corso, provided a sight not to be missed. Yet in Spain he had sadly missed it. He had longed to wander along the Via Funari where the rope-makers lived, and the Via Canestrari where the basket-makers lived, to the Via dei Serpenti; to gaze at the Capitol and think of the heroes of Rome who had been crowned with glory there, and to see the Tarpeian Rock from which guilty men were thrown; to laugh at the old saying that glory was but a short way from disgrace, and to answer it with: Not for a Borgia; not for the son of the Pope!

All this was Rome, and Rome was where he belonged; yet he was so unfortunate as to be sent away from it.

He sought to postpone the hour of his departure. He threw himself madly into pleasure. He roamed the streets with a band of selected friends, and there was not a beautiful young woman—or man—who was safe, once Giovanni had set eyes on her or him.

He favored the most notorious of the courtesans. He roamed the Ponte district in their company. He liked courtesans; they were experienced, as he was; he liked also very young girls, and one of his favorite pastimes was seducing or forcing young brides before their marriage took place. Giovanni, he himself knew, would never be a brave soldier, and instinct told him that Cesare, who was no coward, was aware of that streak of cowardice in him, and that Cesare exulted because of it whilst raging at the unfairness which had made Giovanni a soldier and himself a man of the Church.

Giovanni sought to hide that streak of weakness within him, and how could he do this better, he thought, than by inflicting cruelty on those who could not retaliate? If he abducted a bride about to be married, who could complain against the beloved son of an all-powerful Pope? Such adventures lulled his fear of inadequacy and, he felt, made him appear as a lusty adventurer.

There was one person in whose company he found great delight. This was a Turkish Prince whom the Pope was holding as hostage in the Vatican. Djem was of striking appearance; his Asiatic manners amused Giovanni; his Turkish costume was picturesque and he was more cunning and more coldly barbarous than anyone Giovanni had ever known.

Giovanni had struck up a friendship with Djem and they were often seen about the city together. Giovanni appeared in Turkish costume; it suited him, and Djem with his dark looks made a striking contrast to the golden beauty of Giovanni.

They were together in Alexander’s cortège when it traveled from church to church; and it seemed strange to the people of Rome to see two prominent figures on a pair of matched horses, both dressed in turbans and colorful oriental costume.

Most people were horrified to see the Turk in this procession for the Turk was an infidel; but Giovanni insisted that his friend accompany them, and the Turk smiled at the horrified looks of the people in his slow indolent way which everyone knew was a veil to hide his barbarism. From him they looked to the handsome Duke of Gandia whose keen eyes were on the look-out for the most beautiful young women, marking the spot where they could later be found, and pointing them out to Djem, who would be planning that night’s adventures.

In this Asiatic, who was capable of devising strange orgies of calculated cruelty and extraordinary eroticism, Giovanni had found a congenial companion.

Here was another reason why he had no wish to leave Rome.

As for Alexander, he knew of the complaints against Giovanni; he knew that the people were shocked by the appearance of the Pope’s son in Turkish costume; but he merely shook his head and smiled indulgently.

“He means no harm,” he said. “He is young yet, and it is merely high spirits which cause him to play his merry pranks.”

And Alexander was as loth to let his beloved Giovanni leave Rome as Giovanni was to go.

Lucrezia sat with Giulia; there was a piece of embroidery before her and she was smiling at it. She enjoyed working the beautiful pattern on silk in gold, scarlet and blue threads. Bending over the work she looked, thought Giulia, like an innocent child, and Giulia felt slightly impatient. Lucrezia was now a married woman, and though the marriage had not been consummated she had no right to look such a baby.

Lucrezia, thought Giulia, is different from the rest of us. Lucrezia is apart. She is like her father, yet lacking his wisdom and understanding of life; she has the same way of turning away from the unpleasant and refusing to believe in its existence; and she has a tolerance besides. I believe she makes excuses for the cruelty of people, almost as though she understands what makes them act cruely; and that is part of her strangeness, for Lucrezia is never cruel herself.

All the same Giulia felt impatient in her company, for Giulia was uneasy. She hated Cesare and Giovanni; they had always made her uncomfortable, but now she knew that they were deliberately trying to oust her from her position. Sexually she was out of reach. She was, after all, their father’s mistress and the bond between Giulia and the Pope was a strong one as he did not feel toward her as he would toward any light love of a night or so. Therefore his sons, while desiring her as they would desire any beautiful woman, were forced to respect her; consequently they were piqued about this, and it was part of their arrogance that they should dislike any who brought home to them the fact that they could not have all their own way in all directions. The Pope towered above his sons; he was the fount from whom all blessings flowed; and although he was the most indulgent of fathers, the most generous of benefactors, there were some bounds beyond which even they might not go.

Giulia’s was a case which underlined this fact, and they resented her because of it. Accordingly they endeavored to destroy her influence.

She knew that they sought the most beautiful young people in Rome, and that they introduced the girls to their father. (Alexander had never been interested in their young male friends.) The Pope had been greatly taken with a certain Spanish nun whom Giovanni had brought with him in his retinue. The result was that the Holy Father had been too busy to see Giulia for some days. Giulia was furious, and she knew whom to blame.

Impetuous as she was, she wanted to storm into the Papal apartments and denounce Giovanni; but that would be folly. Much as the Pope liked to please his beautiful young mistress, and indeed found it difficult to refuse the request of any pretty young woman, there was one for whom he cared more than any woman—his precious Giovanni.

And if the Spanish nun was proving very delectable he might feel just a little more impatient than he would otherwise have done, if Giulia railed against Giovanni. Alexander might love various women in various degrees, but his love for his children never faltered.

Now Giulia, looking at the fair young face bent over the embroidery, said slyly: “Lucrezia, I am worried about Giovanni.”

Lucrezia’s innocent eyes were wide with surprise. “You are worried about him? I thought you did not like him.”

Giulia laughed. “We banter … as brother and sister might. I would not say that I loved him as you do. I would never have that blind adoration for a brother which you have for yours.”

“I think you are very fond of your brother Alessandro.”

Giulia nodded. It was true. She was fond of Alessandro to the extent that she was determined to secure for him his Cardinal’s hat before long. But that was different from this passionate attachment which seemed to exist between the Borgia brothers and their sister.

“Oh, fond enough,” she said lightly. “But I was talking of Giovanni. There is a great deal of gossip in the streets concerning him.”

“There is always gossip,” murmured Lucrezia lightly, picking up her needle.

“That’s true, but this is a time when gossip could be very harmful to Giovanni.”

Lucrezia lifted her head from her work.

“On account of his marriage,” went on Giulia impatiently. “I have heard it said, by friends who have come from Spain, that there is talk at the Court there of Giovanni’s wild behavior, of his friendship with Djem, and how they spend their time. There is some displeasure in quarters where it could prove harmful to Giovanni.”

“Have you told my father this?”

Giulia smiled. “If it came from me he would feel I was jealous of Giovanni. He knows that I am aware of the affection between them.”

“Yet he should know,” said Lucrezia.

Giulia was well pleased. It was easy to lead Lucrezia the way in which one wanted her to go.

“Indeed he should.” Giulia looked out of the window to hide the sly smile playing about her lips. “If it came from you it would carry weight.”

Lucrezia rose. “Then I shall tell him. I shall tell him at once. He would be distressed if aught should happen to prevent Giovanni’s marriage.”

“You are wise. I have it from a very reliable source that his future father-in-law is considering the annulment of the betrothal, and that if Giovanni does not claim his bride within the next few months another husband will be found for her.”

“I will go to my father at once,” said Lucrezia. “He should know of this.”

Giulia followed her. “I will accompany you,” she said, “and if the Holy Father feels disposed to see me, there I shall be.”

Alexander wept as he embraced his son.

“Father,” cried Giovanni, “if you love me as you say, how can you bear that I should leave you?”

“I love you so much, my son, that I can let you go.”

“Could not there be a more worthwhile marriage for me here in Rome?”

“No, my son. We have the future to think of. You forget you are Duke of Gandia and that when you are married to Maria you will have the might of Spain behind you. Do not underestimate the importance of this tie with the Spanish royal house.”

Giovanni sighed, but the Pope put his arm about him. “Come, see what wedding presents I have for you and your bride.”

Giovanni looked almost sullenly at the furs and jewels, and the chests which were decorated with beautiful paintings. In the last weeks all the best jewelers of Rome had been busy buying the best stones, and resetting them in exquisite ornaments for the Duke of Gandia. Alexander opened a chest and showed his son sables and ermine and necklaces of pearls and rubies until he made the young man’s eyes glisten with eagerness to wear them.

“You see, my son, you will go to Spain in all the splendor of a Prince. Does not that delight you?”

Giovanni admitted grudgingly that it did. “But,” he added, “there is still much I regret leaving.”

The Pope embraced him. “Be assured, my beloved, that you do not hate going more than I hate to see you go.” Alexander put his face close to his son’s. “Marry your Maria,” he said; “get her with child. Get yourself an heir … and then, why should you not come back to Rome? Rest assured none here will scold you for not remaining once you have done your duty.”

Giovanni smiled. “I will do it, Father,” he said.

“And remember, Giovanni, while you are in Spain you must behave as a Spaniard.”

“They are so solemn.”

“On ceremonious occasions only. I ask nothing more of you but this, my dearest boy: Marry, get an heir and conduct yourself in a manner not to offend the Court of Spain. Apart from that … do as you will. Enjoy your life. Your father would have you happy.”

Giovanni kissed his father’s hand and left him to join Djem who was waiting for him.

They rode out into the City on one of their adventures, more gay, more bizarre than ever. Giovanni felt he must cram as much excitement as possible into the short time left to him.

When his son had gone, the Pope sent for two men: Ginès Fira and Mossen Jayme Pertusa.

“You are making your preparations?” asked the Pope.

“We are ready to leave for Spain at a moment’s notice, Most Holy Lord,” answered Ginès.

“That is well. Keep close to my son and report to me everything that happens to him; however insignificant, I wish to hear of it.”

“We are your servants, Holiness.”

“If I should discover that you have withheld any detail—however small—I shall excommunicate you, and you may look forward to eternal damnation.”

The men grew pale. Then they fell to their knees and swore that, as far as it was in their power, they would report every detail of the life of the Duke of Gandia; they had no wish on Earth but to serve his Holiness.

Lucrezia had been riding out to Monte Mario to watch the falcons and, as she returned to the Palace, a slave ran to her to tell her that Madonna Adriana was looking for her.

Lucrezia made her way to the apartment where she found Adriana somewhat disturbed.

“The Holy Father wishes you to go to him,” she said. “There is news of some sort.”

Lucrezia’s eyes widened and her lips fell slightly apart, a characteristic expression which, with her receding chin, made her look more like a girl of ten than one approaching fourteen.

“Bad news?” she asked, fear creeping into her eyes.

“It is news from Spain,” said Adriana. “I know nothing else.”

News from Spain must involve Giovanni. Indeed during the last months no one had been able to forget Giovanni. Alexander was preoccupied at all times by thoughts of his beloved son.

When bad news came from Spain he shut himself away and wept, and he would be quite unhappy for perhaps a day—which was a long time for him to grieve; then he would brighten and would say: “One cannot believe all one hears. Such a magnificent Prince must naturally have enemies.”

The news had always been bad, so Lucrezia was fearful as she heard of the summons to go to her father.

She said: “I will take off my habit and go to him at once.”

“Do so,” said Adriana; “he is impatient for you.”

She went to her apartments and Giulia followed her there. Giulia was pleased because she had regained all her old power over the Pope. She had learned that she must shrug aside his light preference for Spanish nuns or Moorish slaves; such desires passed. Lucrezia had told her of her mother’s attitude toward her father’s lighter loves; Vannozza had laughed indulgently, and he had always cared for Vannozza; he had given her two husbands, and Canale was treated as a member of the family; even Cesare had some regard for him out of respect for their mother. And look how the Pope had loved Vannozza’s children, showering on them such loving care that could not have been exceeded even if he had been able to marry Vannozza and they were his legitimate offspring.

Lucrezia was right; and Giulia was determined that her little Laura should be treated with the same loving care. Alexander certainly doted on the little girl, and as a sign of his love of her mother had promised to bestow the Cardinal’s hat on Alessandro Farnese. Her family could not tell her often enough how they admired her and depended on her.

But now Giulia wondered about this news which the Pope wished to impart to his daughter. In the old days she would have been rather piqued that he had not told her first, but now she was able to adapt herself and hide any resentment she felt.

“My father awaits me,” said Lucrezia as her slave helped her to take off her riding habit.

“I wonder what fresh trouble there has been,” said Giulia.

“It may not be trouble,” said Lucrezia. “It could be good news.”

Giulia laughed at her. “You do not change at all,” she said. “You have been married nearly a year and yet you are the same as you were when we first met.”

Lucrezia was not listening; she was thinking of all the preparations previous to Giovanni’s departure. She knew how important Giovanni was to Alexander; she knew that he had gone to the utmost trouble to ensure that his son should please the Spanish Court; she knew about the Bishop of Oristano, into whose care the Pope had put Giovanni from the moment he stepped on to Spanish soil; she knew of the orders which had been issued to Ginès Fira and Pertusa. Poor men, how could they prevent Giovanni from disobeying his father’s orders!

And poor Giovanni! Not to go out at night. Not to play at dicing. To keep his wife company and sleep with her every night until a child was conceived. To wear gloves all the time he was at sea because salt was harmful to the hands, and in Spain a nobleman was expected to have soft white hands.

And Giovanni, of course, had disobeyed his father. Letters came from Fira and Pertusa telling of these matters, and those letters plunged the Pope into gloom—temporary gloom, it was true—before he roused himself and said that in spite of everything he knew his dearest son would do all that was expected of him.

There had been gloomy letters from Giovanni. His marriage had taken place at Barcelona, and the King and Queen of Spain had been present, which was a great honor and showed in what esteem they held Maria; but wrote Giovanni, he had no taste for his wife; she was dull and her face was too long; she repelled him.

Lucrezia tried not to think of that day the letter came from Fira and Pertusa saying that Giovanni had refused to consummate the marriage and that, instead of sleeping with his bride, he took a few companions and prowled about the town at night looking for young girls to seduce or rape.

This was terrible, for if the Pope made excuses for his son, the King of Spain would not, and Giovanni’s bride was of the royal house and must not be humiliated thus.

For the first time Alexander wrote angrily to Giovanni, and bade Cesare write on the same lines to his brother; this Cesare was only too eager to do.

Lucrezia was saddened by this state of affairs. She knew that her father was as worried as he possibly could be; it was not as much as most parents would have been, of course, but Lucrezia loved him so dearly that she could not bear to think of his being even mildly distressed.

She had wept in his presence and he had embraced her and kissed her passionately. “My darling, my darling,” he had cried. “You would never hurt your father in this way, my sweet, sweet girl.”

“Never, Father,” she had assured him. “I would die rather than hurt you.”

He had held her against him, called her his dear, dear love, and he could scarcely bear her to be out of his sight for a whole day.

But the storms passed and Alexander was soon his gay benign self again, for there was a letter from Giovanni declaring that by writing as he had his father had caused him great unhappiness—the greatest he had ever suffered.

At which Alexander wept and reproached himself.

He read Giovanni’s letter aloud to Lucrezia, having sent for her on receipt of it.

“ ‘I cannot understand how you can believe in such sinister reports which were written by malicious people who have no regard for the truth.…’ ”

“You see?” Alexander had cried jubilantly. “We have misjudged him.”

“Then,” said Lucrezia, “Fira and Pertusa have lied?”

Lights of fear came into the gray-blue eyes to disturb their mildness. She was afraid for those two men who had done, she knew, what the Holy Father had asked of them, and who might have to be punished to prove Giovanni right.

Alexander waved his hand. “No matter. No matter,” he said. He did not want to discuss the two men whom he trusted to tell him the truth; he did not want to have to admit that he knew Giovanni’s words to be lies. It was so much pleasanter to make believe that they were true.

“His marriage has been more than consummated,” cried the Pope, continuing to read the letter. He burst out laughing. “Indeed it has. I know my Giovanni!”

Alexander went on reading:

“ ‘If I have prowled at night, oh my Father, I did so with my father-in-law, Enrico Enriques, and other friends of His Most Catholic Majesty. It is the custom to take a stroll by night in Barcelona.’ ”

Then Alexander had walked about the apartment, talking about Giovanni, telling Lucrezia that he was always certain that his children would never fail him; but Lucrezia had been conscious of an uneasiness. And so, when this message came, she was afraid that there was further alarming news about her brother.

When she reached her father’s presence she knew that she had been worrying unduly; she was taken into his arms and kissed fervently.

“My dearest daughter,” cried the Pope; “here is the best possible news. We shall celebrate this with a banquet this very night. Listen to what I have to say, my darling: Your brother is soon to be a father. What do you say to that, Lucrezia? What do you say to that?”

She clasped her arms about him. “Oh Father, I am so happy; I can think of no words to express my joy.”

“As I knew you would be. Let me look at you. Oh, how your eyes shine and sparkle! How beautiful you are, my daughter! I knew the joy this would give you; that is why I would let no other impart the news to you. I would tell none until you knew first.”

“I rejoice for Giovanni,” said Lucrezia. “I know how happy this will make him; and I rejoice also for your Holiness, because I believe the pleasure it gives you is even greater than that which it will bring to Giovanni.”

“So my little daughter cares deeply for her father?”

“How could it be otherwise?” demanded Lucrezia, as though astonished that he should ask.

“I loved you dearly since the first day when I held you in my arms, a red-faced baby with a gleam of silvery down on your head; and I have loved you steadily since. My Lucrezia … my little one … who would never willingly cause me a moment’s anxiety!”

She took his hand and kissed it. “ ’Tis true, Father,” she said. “You know me well.”

He put his arm about her and led her to a chair.

“Now,” he said, “we will see that all Rome rejoices in this news. You and Giulia must put your lovely heads together and devise a banquet to outdo all banquets.”

Lucrezia was smiling when she returned to her apartments. She was surprised to find her husband there.

“My lord?” she said.

He laughed. “It is strange to see me here, I know,” he answered grimly. “It should not be, Lucrezia. You are my wife, you know.”

Sudden fear seized her. She had never seen Sforza thus. There was something in his eyes which she did not understand.

She waited apprehensively. “You have been with his Holiness?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I guessed it. Your radiant looks tell me and I know how matters stand between you.”

“Between my father and myself?”

“The whole of Rome knows that he dotes upon you,”

“The whole of Rome knows that he is my father.”

Sforza laughed; it was an unpleasant laugh, but mildly so; everything was mild about Sforza. “It is because all Rome knows him to be your father that this affection … this more than doting … is so strange,” he countered.

She stared at him, but already he had turned and was striding out of the apartment.

Cesare came to the Palace of Santa Maria in Portico. He was in a strange mood, and Lucrezia was unsure what it implied. Was he angry? Certainly he must be. Giovanni was now to be a legitimate father, and that was something, Cesare would be telling himself, that he could never be. How sad, thought Lucrezia, that the happiness of her father over Giovanni’s wife’s pregnancy must be a further cross for Cesare to bear.

She knew that he had never forgotten the vow he had made before the Madonna to escape from the Church; and she knew that he was as determined now to fulfill it as he had been when he had made it.

So now when he strode in, she wondered what could be the meaning of that glittering expression in the eyes, that tight tension of the lips.

She had heard rumors of his life at the universities. It was said that no vice was too degrading for Cesare to indulge in, if only experimentally. It was said that his father’s money and influence had enabled him to set up a little court of his own and that he ruled his courtiers like a despotic monarch; one look was enough to subdue them and, if any failed to do his bidding, accidents quickly befell those people.

“Cesare,” said Lucrezia, “has anything happened to anger you?”

He took her by the neck and bent back her head. He kissed her lips lightly. “Those beautiful eyes see too much,” he murmured. “I want you to come riding with me.”

“Yes, Cesare; with the utmost pleasure. Where shall we ride?”

“Along by the river mayhap. Through the city. Let the people see us together. They enjoy it. And why should they not? You are pleasant enough to look at, sister.”

“And you are the handsomest man in Italy.”

He laughed. “What,” he said, “in my priest’s robes!”

“You add dignity to them. No priest ever looked like you.”

“A fact which doubtless makes all the Bishops and Cardinals rejoice mightily.”

He is in a good mood, she thought. I was mistaken.

As they rode out another rider joined them. This was a lovely red-haired girl, magnificently, indeed over-dressed, glittering with jewels, her long red hair falling about her shoulders.

“Fiametta knows you well, sister,” said Cesare, looking from the red-haired woman of the world to the golden innocence of Lucrezia. “She declares that I speak your name far too frequently when I am in her company.”

“We are a devoted family,” Lucrezia explained to the girl.

“Indeed it is so,” said Fiametta. “The whole of Rome talks of your devotion—one to another; and it is hard to say who loves Madonna Lucrezia more, her brothers or her father.”

“It is comforting to be so loved,” said Lucrezia simply.

“Come,” said Cesare, “we will ride together.”

He rode between them, the sardonic smile playing about his lips as they went. People in the streets walked past them with lowered eyes but, when they had passed, stopped to stare after them.

Cesare’s reputation was already such that none dared give him a hostile or critical look which he might see; but they could not help staring at him, riding through the streets with his sister and the other woman.

Cesare knew full well that he was shocking them by riding in daylight with one of the most notorious courtesans in Rome together with his sister; he knew that an account of this would be taken to his father and that the Pope would be displeased. It was what Cesare intended. Let the people look; let them gossip.

Fiametta was enjoying the jaunt. She was delighted that the citizens should know that she was the latest mistress of Cesare Borgia. It was a fillip to her reputation; and the longer she remained in favor with him, the better, for surely that must show that she was superior in her profession to her fellows.

They rode to the ancient Colosseum which never failed to fascinate Lucrezia and yet to fill her with horror as she thought of the Christians who had been thrown to the lions and killed for their faith.

“Oh,” she cried, “it is so beautiful, and yet … disturbing. They say that if one comes here at night and waits among the ruins one hears the cries of the martyrs and the roar of the wild beasts.”

Fiametta laughed. “ ’Tis a tale that is told.”

Lucrezia turned questioningly to Cesare.

“Fiametta is right,” he told her. “What you would doubtless hear would be someone taking away the stones and marbles to build him a house. These stories of ghosts are told in order to keep those away from the Colosseum who might disturb the thieves.”

“Perhaps that is what it is. Now I no longer feel alarmed.”

“But I pray you,” said Cesare, “do not come here at night, sister. It is not for such as you to do so.”

“Would you come here at night?” Lucrezia asked Fiametta.

Cesare answered for her: “At night the Colosseum is the haunt of robbers and prostitutes.”

Fiametta flushed slightly, but she had learned to show no anger to Cesare.

Lucrezia, seeing her discomfiture and understanding its cause—for she realized to what profession Fiametta belonged—said quickly: “Pope Paul built his palace from these blocks of travertine. Is it not wonderful to contemplate that all those years ago the same marble, the same stone, was used and, although all the people who built it and lived in it are dead, fourteen hundred years later houses can still be built of the same material?”

“Is she not enchanting, my little sister?” said Cesare, and threw a kiss to her.

They galloped among the ruins for a while and then turned their horses back toward the Palace of Santa Maria in Portico.

Cesare told Fiametta that he would come to visit her later that day and went into Lucrezia’s palace with her.

“Ah,” he said, when they were alone—and whenever Cesare visited Lucrezia, her attendants always understood that he wished to be alone with her—“now you are a little shocked, confess it, sister.”

“The people stared at us, Cesare.”

“And you do not like poor Fiametta?”

“I liked her. She is very beautiful … but she is a courtesan, is she not; and should she have ridden in our company through the streets?”

“Why not?”

“Perhaps because you are an Archbishop.”

Cesare brought his fist down upon his thigh in a well remembered gesture.

“It is precisely because I am an Archbishop that I rode through the streets with that red-headed harlot.”

“Our father says …”

“I know what our father says. Have your mistresses—ten, twenty, a hundred, if you must. Amuse yourself as you will … in private. But in public remember, always remember that you are a son of Holy Church. By all the saints, Lucrezia, I have sworn that I will escape from the Church, and I will behave in such a way that our father will be forced to free me.”

“Oh, Cesare, you will make him so unhappy.”

“And what of the unhappiness he causes me?”

“It is for your own advancement.”

“You listen to him rather than to me. I see that, sister.”

“Oh no, Cesare, no. I would have you know that if there were aught I could do to free you from the Church, willingly would I do it.”

“Yet you grieve for your father. You say with such sympathy: ‘He would be made unhappy.’ Not a word about my unhappiness.”

“I know you are unhappy, dearest brother, and I would do everything in my power to put an end to that unhappiness.”

“Would you, Lucrezia? Would you?”

“Anything … anything on Earth.”

He took her by the shoulder and smiled down at her. “One day I may ask you to redeem that promise.”

“I shall be waiting. I shall be ready, Cesare.”

He kissed her ardently.

“You soothe me,” he said. “Did you not always do so? Beloved sister, there is no one on Earth whom I could love as I love you.”

“And I love you too, Cesare. Is that not enough to make us happy, even if we have other trials to bear?”

“No,” he cried, his eyes ablaze. “I know my destiny. It is to be a King … a conqueror. Do you doubt that?”

“No, Cesare, I do not. I see you always as a King and a conqueror.”

“Dear Lucrezia, when we were riding with Fiametta you looked at those old ruins and you thought of days long ago. There is one man glorious in our history. He conquered great countries. He lived before the Colosseum was built and he is the greatest man who—as yet—has come out of Rome. You know of whom I speak.”

“Of Julius Caesar,” she said.

“A great Roman, a great conqueror. I picture him, crossing the Rubicon and knowing that all Italy lay at his feet. That was forty-nine years before Christ was born, and yet there has never been another like him—as yet. You know what his motto was, do you not? Aut Caesar, aut nullus. Lucrezia, from this moment I adopt that as mine.” His eyes were brilliant with megalomania; he was so certain of his greatness that he made her believe him. “But see, did they not call me Cesare! That was no mere chance. There was one great Caesar. There shall be another.”

“You are right!” she cried. “I am sure of it. In years to come people will talk of you as they do of great Julius. You will be a great general.…”

Now his expression was ugly.

“And my father will make a Churchman of me!”

“But you will be Pope, Cesare. One day you will be Pope.”

He stamped his foot with fury. “A Pope rules in shadow; a King in the full light of day. I do not wish to be Pope. I wish to be King. I wish to unite the whole of Italy under my banner and rule … myself and none other. That is the task of a King, not a Pope.”

“Our father must release you.”

“He will not. He refuses. I have begged. I have implored. But no, I am for the Church, he insists. One of us must be. Giovanni has his long-faced mare in Barcelona. Goffredo has his harlot of Naples. And I … I am to be wedded to the Church. Lucrezia, was there ever such crass folly? I feel murderous when I contemplate it.”

“Murderous, Cesare! Against him!”

Cesare put his face against hers. “Yes,” he said grimly. “I feel murderous … even toward him.”

“He must be made to understand. He is the best father in the world, and if he but knew your feelings … oh Cesare, he would understand them. He would see that something was done.”

“I have explained my feelings until I am weary. He loses all his benign looks then. I never saw a man so set on one thing as our father is when I talk of leaving the Church. He is determined that I shall stay.”

“Cesare, what you have said causes me much pain. I cannot be happy knowing that you harbor such thoughts of our father.”

“You are too soft, too gentle. You must not be so, child. How do you think the world will use you if you continue so?”

“I had not thought of how the world would use me. I think of you, dear brother, and how it has used you. And I cannot bear that there should be ill-feeling between you and our father. And Cesare … oh, my brother … you spoke of murder!”

Cesare laughed aloud. Then he was tender. “Set your fears at rest, bambina. I would not murder him. What folly! From him come all our blessings.”

“Do not forget it, Cesare. Do not forget it.”

“I am a man who is full of rage, but not of folly,” he answered. “I revenge myself in my own way. Our father insists that I go into the Church, and I insist on showing how unsuitable I am for that calling. That is why I roam the streets with my red-headed courtesan—in the hope of making our father realize that he cannot force me to continue this life.”

“But Cesare, what of the rumors we have heard concerning your marriage with a Princess of Aragon?”

“Rumors,” he said wearily. “Nothing more.”

“Yet our father seemed to be considering this at one time.”

“It was diplomacy to consider it, child. Naples suggested it in order to alarm the Sforzas of Milan, and our father encouraged it for political reasons.”

“But he gave such a warm welcome to the ambassador, and everyone knew that he had arrived here to discuss a possible marriage between you and the Princess.”

“Diplomacy. Diplomacy. Waste no time on considering it. I do not. My only hope is to show our father how unsuitable I am for the Church, or to find a way of forcing him to release me. But there is little hope. Our father has determined to make me a Cardinal.”

“A Cardinal, Cesare! So that is the reason for your anger.” She shook her head. “I am thinking of all those who bring presents to me and to Giulia because they hope we will influence our father in giving them the Cardinal’s hat. And you … on whom he longs to bestow it … want none of it. How strange life is!”

Cesare was clenching and unclenching his hands. “I fear,” he said, “that once I am in my Cardinal’s robes there will be no escape.”

“Cesare, my brother, you will escape,” she told him.

“I am determined,” said the Pope, “that you shall become a Cardinal.”

Cesare had once more broached the subject of release and because he felt that his sister might have a softening effect on their father, he had insisted that she accompany him into his presence.

“Father, I implore you to release me from the Church before you take this step.”

“Cesare, are you a fool? What man in Rome would refuse such honors?”

“I am as no other man in Rome. I am myself and myself alone. I refuse this … this questionable honor.”

“You can say this … before Almighty God!”

Cesare shook his head impatiently. “Father, you know, do you not, that once I am a Cardinal it will be more difficult to release me from my vows?”

“My son, there is no question of releasing you from your vows. Let us discuss this no more. Lucrezia, my love, bring your lute. I should like to hear you sing that new song of Serafino’s.”

“Yes, Father,” said Lucrezia.

But Cesare would not allow her to sing and, although the Pope regarded his son with mild reproach, he did nothing more.

“You cannot make me a Cardinal, Father,” said Cesare triumphantly. “I am your son, but your illegitimate son, and as you know full well no man can become a Cardinal unless he is of legitimate birth.”

The Pope brushed aside his argument as though it were not more than a wasp which provided a temporary irritation.

“Now I understand your anxiety, my son. It is for this reason that you have been reluctant. You should have spoken of your fears earlier.”

“So, Father, you see that it is impossible.”

“You … a Borgia to talk of the impossible! Nonsense, my dear boy, nothing is impossible. A little difficulty, I’ll admit; but have no fears, I have thought of ways of overcoming such.”

“Father, I implore you to listen to me.”

“I would rather listen to Lucrezia’s singing.”

“I will be heard! I will be heard!” shrieked Cesare.

Lucrezia began to tremble. She had heard him shout thus before, but never in their father’s presence.

“I think, my son,” said the Pope coolly, “that you are overwrought. It is due to riding in the sun in company unfitted to your state. I would suggest you refrain from such conduct which, I assure you, my dearest boy, brings distress to those who love you, but could bring greater harm to yourself.”

Cesare stood, biting his lips, clenching and unclenching his hands.

There was a moment of fear when Lucrezia thought he was about to strike their father. The Pope sat, smiling benignly, refusing to accept this as a major difference between them.

Then Cesare seemed to regain his control; he bowed with dignity and murmured: “Father, I crave leave to depart.”

“It is granted, my son,” said Alexander gently.

Cesare went, and Lucrezia stared unhappily after him.

Then she, who was sitting on a stool at her father’s feet, felt his hand on her head.

“Come, my love, the song! It is a pleasant one and sounds best on your sweet lips.”

As she sang, the Pope caressed his daughter’s golden hair, and they both temporarily forgot the unpleasant scene which Cesare had created; they both found it very easy to forget when it was comforting to do so.

In the Pope’s private apartments Cardinals Pallavicini and Orsini sat with him.

“A simple matter,” said the Pope, smiling benignly, “and I am sure it will present no difficulty to you … this little formality of proving that he who is known as Cesare Borgia is of legitimate birth.”

The Cardinals were astonished, for the Pope had openly acknowledged Cesare as his son.

“But, Most Holy Lord, this is surely an impossibility.”

“How so?” asked the Pope with bland surprise.

Orsini and Pallavicini looked at each other in bewilderment. Then Orsini spoke. “Holy Father, if Cesare Borgia is your son, how could it be that he is of legitimate birth?”

Alexander smiled from Orsini to Pallavicini as though they were two simple children.

“Cesare Borgia,” he said, “is the son of Vannozza Catanei, a woman of Rome. At the time of his birth she was a married woman. That dispenses with Cesare’s illegitimacy, for a child born in wedlock is legitimate, is he not?”

“Holiness,” murmured Pallavicini, “we were unaware that the lady was married at the time of his birth. It is generally believed that it was not until after the birth of her daughter Lucrezia that she married Giorgio di Croce.”

“It is true that the marriage with Giorgio di Croce took place after the birth of Lucrezia, but the lady was married before that. Her husband was a certain Domenico d’Arignano, who was an official of the Church.”

The Cardinals bowed. “Then that proves Cesare Borgia to be legitimate, Holiness.”

“It does indeed,” said the Pope, smiling at them. “Let a bull be made stating his parentage and his legitimacy.” His expression was regretful; it saddened him to deny his son; yet such denial there must be in the name of ambition. He added: “Since I had taken this young man under my patronage I allowed him to adopt the name of Borgia.”

The Cardinals murmured: “We will immediately obey your wishes, Most Holy Father.”

But when they had left him the Pope immediately set about drawing up another bull in which he declared that he was the father of Cesare Borgia. It saddened him a little that this bull must be a secret one—for a while.

Cesare raged up and down Lucrezia’s apartment, and in vain did she try to soothe him.

“Not content,” cried Cesare, “with forcing me into the Church my father now allows it to be said that I am the son of a certain Domenico d’Arignano. And who is Domenico d’Arignano, I beg you tell me. Who has ever heard of Domenico d’Arignano?”

“They will hear of him now,” said Lucrezia gently. “The whole world will hear of him. His claim to fame will be that he was named as your father.”

“Insult after insult!” cried Cesare. “Humiliation after humiliation! How much longer must I endure this state of affairs?”

“My dearest brother, our father but wishes to advance you. In his opinion, it is necessary that you become a Cardinal, and this is the only way in which he can make you one.”

“So he denies me!”

“It is only for a while.”

“Never,” cried Cesare, beating his fists on his chest, “will I forget that my father has denied me.”

Meanwhile Alexander had called together a Consistory, that Cesare might be declared legitimate.

He had chosen this moment because so many had left Rome. The weather was hot and sultry and there had been reports of plague in various quarters. When pestilence crept into the city those who could invariably made an excuse to escape to their estates and vineyards in the country. This was such a time.

Alexander knew that there had been a great deal of opposition among the Cardinals on account of the favors he had bestowed on his family and friends; the matters he had to lay before them now concerned not only his son but the brother of his mistress, for although he had promised Giulia that her brother should have his Cardinal’s hat it had not yet been bestowed upon him.

There were few Cardinals present at the Consistory, which pleased Alexander. Better to deal with a few opponents than many. But those who were present were suspicious because they understood that this was a preliminary move and they feared what was to come. Alexander carried nepotism too far, they said to one another. It would not be long before every man in any position of importance was one put there to serve the Pope.

And their suspicions increased when Alexander folded his beautiful hands, smiled his most benign smile and declared: “My Lord Cardinals, make the necessary preparations. Tomorrow we elect the new Cardinals.”

Then all was clear. Cesare had been declared legitimate that he might be made a Cardinal.

There was a faint murmur throughout the assembly, and many eyes were turned to Cardinal Carafa who had on previous occasions shown himself bold enough to oppose the Pope.

“Most Holy Lord,” said Carafa, “has your Holiness given due consideration to the usefulness of making these nominations?”

Again that bland smile. “The question of creating these Cardinals concerns me alone.”

“Holiness,” said a voice from the assembly, “there are many among us who feel that it is not necessary to make new Cardinals at this time.”

The smile disappeared from the face of the Pope, and for a moment all those assembled caught a glimpse of an Alexander who usually remained hidden.

Carafa boldly went on: “The point is, Holiness, that we know some of those names which you intend to propose, and we do not think they are suitable for the office, nor would we wish them to be our colleagues.”

This was a direct reference to Cesare’s reputation and a reminder that he had been seen in the city in the company of the courtesan, Fiametta. Cesare had deliberately flaunted his friendship with the woman, anticipating a scene such as this.

It was characteristic of Alexander that his anger should be not against Cesare but the Cardinals.

He seemed to grow in stature. The Cardinals trembled before him, for there was a legend in Rome that no man of Alexander’s age could possess such virility, such amazingly good health, unless he was superhuman. Those Cardinals felt that legend to be true as now their Pope faced them in his unaccustomed anger.

“You must learn who Alexander VI is,” he cried. “And if you persist in your intransigence I shall annoy you all by making as many new Cardinals as I wish. You will never drive me from Rome, and any who try to, or oppose me in any way, will be very foolish men. You should really ponder on how foolish they will be.”

There was a short silence while Alexander looked angrily at the crestfallen Cardinals before him.

Then with the utmost dignity he went on: “Now we will nominate the new Cardinals.”

And when the assembly saw that at the head of the list were the names of Cesare Borgia and Alessandro Farnese, and that all the thirteen proposed were men who could be trusted to work for the Pope against his enemies, they realized that there was nothing they dared do but agree to their election.

Alexander smiled at them, and the benevolent look had returned to his face.

When the Cardinals had left the Pope’s presence they discussed the situation.

Della Rovere, who always looked upon himself as a leader, recovered his belligerence although in the presence of the Pope he had been as subdued as the rest.

His one-time enemy Ascanio Sforza supported him. How long were they to endure the outrageous nepotism of the Pope? they asked each other. Not content with making a Cardinal of his illegitimate son, he had done the same for his mistress’s brother. All the new nominees were his pawns. Soon there would be scarcely a man in an influential position to raise his voice against Alexander.

And what was Alexander’s policy? To enrich his own family and friends? It seemed so.

There were rumors in the city that men were dying mysteriously. Cesare Borgia’s evil reputation was growing; it was now said that he was interested in and made a study of the art of poisoning; and that he had many malignant recipes which came from the Spanish Moors. But from whom would Cesare have learned this lore? From his father?

“Beware of the Borgias!” Those words were becoming more and more frequently heard throughout the city.

Alexander was aware of what was happening and, fearing a schism, he acted with his usual vigor. He made Ascanio Sforza almost a prisoner in the Vatican; and seeing what had happened to Sforza, della Rovere made haste to leave Rome.

Lucrezia’s husband apprehensively watched the growing unrest. His relative and patron, Ascanio Sforza, was powerless in the Vatican. Moreover Giovanni Sforza knew that the Pope was less pleased with the marriage of his daughter than he had been, and that already he was on the look-out for a bridegroom who could bring him more profit.

The marriage had never been consummated; the dowry had never been paid. What sort of marriage was this?

He was beset by fears on all sides. He could not sleep easily for he was sure that he was spied on in the Vatican. He was afraid of the Orsinis who were allies of Naples and had always been the enemies of Milan. Would they, he wondered, now that he was out of favor at the Vatican, feel it to be a good opportunity to dispose of him? If he wandered across the bridge of St. Angelo, would they come sweeping down from Monte Giordano and run a knife through his body? And if they did, who would care?

Giovanni Sforza was a man who was sorry for himself; he always had been. His relatives cared little for him—as did the new connections he had acquired through his marriage.

His little bride—she seemed a gentle creature, but he must not forget that she was one of them—was a Borgia, and who would trust a Borgia?

He wished though, during that time, that he and Lucrezia had been husband and wife in truth. She had a sweet and innocent face, and he believed he could have trusted her.

But it was too late to think of that now.

There was a great spectacle taking place in Rome at this time. This was the departure of little Goffredo for Naples where he was to marry Sanchia of Aragon.

Cesare and Lucrezia watched their little brother set out for Naples; he was accompanied by an old friend of Cesare’s, Virginio Orsini, who had made the boy’s first year at Monte Giordano tolerable, and who was now Captain-General of the Aragonese army. Goffredo’s tutor also accompanied the party to Naples; this was Don Ferrando Dixer, a Spaniard; and the Pope to show he did not forget the country to which he belonged, entrusted two caskets of jewels—presents for the bride and bridegroom—to this Spaniard.

And so the auburn-haired Goffredo, aged eleven, rode out of Rome to his bride, to be made Prince of Squillace and Count of Coriata and to receive the order of the Ermine, the motto of which was “Better die than betray.”

There was one who watched the departure with mingling pride and sorrow. The maternal Vannozza’s dream had come true. Her little Goffredo was accepted as the son of Alexander; he was to be a Prince, and she was happy.

But there were times when she wished that she were a humble Roman mother with her children about her; there were times when she would have given up her vineyards and her house with the water cistern to be that.

Giovanni Sforza’s anxiety was increased by the new friendship between Naples and the Vatican which the marriage of Goffredo and Sanchia must foster.

He was afraid to show himself in the streets for fear of enemies of his family; he was afraid of enemies within the Vatican circle. He had a beautiful wife but he was not allowed to live with her; he was lord of Pesaro, a town on the Adriatic coast which seemed to him, particularly at this time, a very peaceful spot, shut away from all strife by the mountains which protected it and blessed by the cool waters of the Foglia River. With the sea on one side and the mountains on the other Pesaro offered a freshness in contrast with the fetid air of Rome; and Sforza longed for Pesaro.

He sought audience of the Pope, because he felt he could no longer stay in Rome.

“Well, Giovanni Sforza,” said Alexander, “what have you to say to me?”

“Holy Father, everyone in Rome believes that Your Holiness has entered into agreement with the King of Naples who is an enemy of the state of Milan. If this is so, my position is a difficult one since, as a captain of the Church, a post in which through your benevolence I have been installed, I am in the pay of Your Holiness, and also in that of Milan. I do not see how I can serve two masters without falling out with one of them. Would Your Holiness, out of your goodness, define my position, that I may serve you as I am paid to do yet not become an enemy of my own blood?”

Alexander laughed. “You take too much interest in politics, Giovanni Sforza. You would be wise to serve those who pay you.”

Giovanni writhed before the calm gaze of the Pope and wished with all his heart that he had never agreed to marry with the Borgias.

“Your questions are answered, my son,” continued Alexander. “Leave me now, and I beg of you do not concern yourself overmuch with politics. They do not touch your duty.”

Giovanni went away and immediately wrote to his uncle, Ludovico of Milan, telling him of what he had said to the Pope and declaring that he would sooner have eaten the straw under his body than have entered into the marriage. He was casting himself upon his uncle’s mercy.

But Ludovico was not prepared to offer him asylum. Ludovico was intently watching the growth of the friendship between Naples and the Vatican; he was not convinced that the bond between those two was of such importance as might be thought in Naples; the Pope was wily and Ludovico preferred to remain aloof.

Giovanni was impatient.

The plague was increasing throughout Rome, and his fears increased with it. In the position he held at the Vatican he was free to leave Rome if he wished.

One day, surrounded by some of his men, he rode out of the city bound for Pesaro.

Lucrezia did not miss him in the least. She had seen little of him, and it was only at special functions that they had appeared together.

Giulia laughed at her as they played with Giulia’s little daughter Laura, who was now nearly two years old.

“One would think you had gained a lover rather than lost one,” said Giulia.

“A lover! He was never that.” Lucrezia was wistful. One grew up, and she was fourteen now. Giulia had been fourteen when she had become Alexander’s mistress.

“Well, do not show your pleasure in his departure quite so openly,” advised Giulia.

“Is my Holy Father coming to see me?” asked little Laura, tugging at her mother’s skirts.

Giulia picked up the child and smothered her with kisses. “Soon, I doubt not, my darling. He could not stay away long from his little Laura, could he?”

Lucrezia watched them, still wistful, thinking of those days when the same father had delighted other children whose nursery he had visited. Alexander—as tender a father to little Laura as he had been to her and Cesare, Giovanni and Goffredo—remained as young as he had been when she and her brothers were in the nursery. Now they were no longer children, and it seemed that wonderful and exciting things happened to them all except herself. She had been married, but hers was no real marriage; and she could be glad because her husband had now run away. Whether he had run away from the plague or from her, it mattered not. Whatever he ran away from he was a coward. Yes, she was sure he was a coward.

She had dreamed of a lover as magnificent as her father, as handsome as her brother Giovanni, as exciting as Cesare—and they had given her a small man, a widower, a cold man who made no protest because the marriage was not consummated; they had married her to a coward who ran away from the plague and did not attempt to take her with him.

Not that she wanted to go. But, she told herself, if Giovanni Sforza had been the sort of man who insisted on taking me, I should have wanted to go.

“Giulia,” she said, “do you think that, now Giovanni Sforza has left me, my father will arrange a divorce?”

“It will depend,” said Giulia, smoothing her daughter’s long fair hair from her forehead, “on how useful the Holy Father considers the marriage.”

“Of what use could it be … now?”

Giulia left her little daughter and going to Lucrezia laid her hand on her shoulder.

“No use at all,” she said. “Depend upon it the marriage will be dissolved and then you will have a fine husband … a husband who will declare he will have none of this marriage which is no marriage. Moreover, you grow up, Lucrezia. You are old enough now for marriage. Oh yes, it will be a handsome husband this time. A true marriage.”

Lucrezia smiled. “Let us wash each other’s hair,” she said; and Giulia agreed. It was a favorite occupation, for their golden hair must be washed every three days because after that time it darkened and lost something of its bright color, so they spent a great deal of time washing each other’s hair.

And while they washed they talked of the handsome husband who would be Lucrezia’s when the Pope had freed her from Giovanni Sforza. Lucrezia saw herself in a gown of crimson velvet sewn with pearls. She was kneeling on a cushion at the feet of her father and saying: “I will with a good heart.” And the man who knelt beside her was a shadowy figure, but he combined the presence of her father and the qualities she so admired in her brothers.

It seemed to her as though it were a Borgia who knelt beside her.

Lucrezia quickly ceased to dream, because when her father became aware that Giovanni Sforza had left Rome he was angry and recalled him at once.

But safe in Pesaro among his own subjects, far from the conflict of politics and the threat of plague, Giovanni could be bold. He ignored the orders.

There were threats and promises, for Alexander was afraid of what this son-in-law might do, once he was out of his control.

And then finally the Pope declared that if Giovanni Sforza would return to Rome his marriage should be consummated and the dowry paid.

All waited eagerly to see what Sforza would do then; Lucrezia waited … in trepidation.