Madonna of the Seven Hills

PESARO

Even with such baits held out to him, Giovanni Sforza was reluctant to return to Rome.

There was unrest throughout Italy, and Sforza was fully aware of this. This time it was not warring states of the peninsula which cast a shadow over the land; there was a mightier enemy.

The King of France had renewed his claims to the throne of Naples and had informed Alexander that he was sending a mission to the Vatican that the matter might be discussed.

Alexander, with his clever diplomacy, received the French mission graciously; and his reception of them was viewed with such disfavor throughout Italy that there were rumors that before long Alexander would be deposed. Della Rovere was alert; he was determined that next time the Papal throne was empty he would sit on it.

Alexander however was not perturbed. He had infinite belief in himself and was sure that he could make the best of a situation however ominous it seemed. Ferrante of Aragon had died and his son Alfonso was now King. Alfonso determined at all costs to keep the Papal friendship, and offered great bribes to Alexander in order to cement it. It was not in Alexander’s nature to refuse the bribes, so he now allied himself with Alfonso; meanwhile the French were dissatisfied and threatened invasion.

In his retreat at Pesaro Giovanni Sforza watched what was going on but could not make up his mind which road to take. Ludovico of Milan had shown him quite clearly that he could not be trusted to help his relative in an emergency. The Pope was obviously strong since Alfonso of Naples was suing so ardently for Papal friendship. Therefore Giovanni Sforza decided that he would return to Rome.

Lucrezia was waiting. Her hair had been freshly washed, her body perfumed. At last she was to be a bride.

The Pope had welcomed his son-in-law as though his absence had been a natural one. He had embraced him warmly and declared that he was glad to receive him and that his nuptial couch was waiting for him.

There were banquets and the usual crude jokes. It was almost like another wedding, but Lucrezia could not enjoy the celebrations so light-heartedly as she had the real wedding. That had been a masque with herself in the principal part; this was reality.

Her husband’s attitude had changed toward her; she sensed that. He took her hand and she felt his breath on her face. At last he had noticed that she was beautiful.

So they danced together, the dances of Italy, not the Spanish dances which she had once danced with Giovanni on that occasion which was so like this and yet so different.

And then to that nuptial couch.

He was quiet and said little. She was prepared for what must take place—Giulia had prepared her—but she knew that it was going to be very different from Giulia’s experience.

She was a little frightened, but serene as always, and she knew that if she did not experience the ecstasy for which she had longed, at least she would be able to endure it.

When they were alone in the great bed she said to him: “Tell me one thing first, Giovanni. Why did you wait so long before you came back?”

“It would have been foolish to return,” he mumbled. “There was plague and … matters were uncertain.”

He turned to her, impatient after all the months of waiting, but she held aloof with the faintest sign of fear in her big light eyes.

“Did you come back for the consummation … or for the dowry?”

“For both,” he answered.

It was strange, bewildering, as Giulia had said; and yet it was not as Giulia had said. She was aware of excitement, of the discovery of a new world which seemed to be opening before her, of delights undreamed of. She knew that with another it would have been different; but even with this man it was adequate.

Yet with some …

She lay back smiling.

She had grown up overnight. Alexander and Giulia, who had noticed it, discussed it together.

“I am sorry for her,” mused Giulia. “My own experience was so different. Poor Lucrezia with that cold and nervous creature! Holiness, you should dissolve the marriage and give her a real man.”

Alexander clicked his tongue playfully. “Such ways to talk of marriage! Oh, she is young yet. She has her whole life before her. I do not however shelve the idea of arranging a divorce, but divorces are not easy to arrange. The Church abhors them.”

“But if the Holy Father decided, the Church would fall in with his wishes,” Giulia reminded him.

“Ah, wicked one, you mock. I must devise a punishment for you.”

“I will say ten ‘I love yous’ and throw myself in worship at your feet, and cry ‘Do with me as you will, Holy Father, for my body and soul belong to you.’ ”

“My Giulia … my little love. What should I do without you! But you will look after my Lucrezia, will you not? You will advise her, wise woman that you are!”

“How to take lovers and deceive her husband. As I did.”

“ ’Twas no deceit. Poor little Orsino, he was willing that it should be so—most willing.”

They laughed together while she assured him that she loved Lucrezia as a sister and that she would look after her as such.

Giulia wished though to discuss other matters. She was eager that the Pope should arrange a grand marriage for Laura, since she wanted all Italy to know that the little girl was accepted as his daughter.

“I will do it. Dearest little Laura shall have as fine a husband as you could wish.”

He kept her with him. He needed the relaxation his relationship with her could give him. There were dark clouds over Rome at this time and he did not care to think of them. So he would be gay with his Giulia; he would make love as a young man while they both rejoiced in his virility.

That was the very best antidote to trouble, he had discovered.

They were in Lucrezia’s apartment—Lucrezia and Giulia. Their hair was loose about their shoulders. Giulia’s reached to her feet, and Lucrezia could sit on hers. They had been washing it once more.

“There is sun on the balcony,” said Giulia. “Let us go there and dry it. Drying it in the sun should make it more golden than ever.”

“Should we go on to the balcony?”

“Why not?”

“Could not infection reach us there?”

“Oh, Lucrezia, are you not tired of being shut in the Palace? We must not go out … not even for a minute. I am weary of it all.”

“It would be more wearying still if we caught the plague.”

“I suppose so. I shall be glad when the hot weather has gone. Perhaps it will take the pestilential air with it.”

Giulia rose and shook out her damp hair. “I shall go on to the balcony.”

“Did you not promise the Holy Father that you would not?”

Giulia grimaced. “I did not mention the balcony. I said I would not go out.”

“He may have meant the balcony.”

“Then let us pretend he did not. I am going out there now. I am going to sit in the sun and dry my hair.”

“No, Giulia, you should not.”

But Giulia had already gone.

Lucrezia sat down thoughtfully, looking at the figure of the Madonna and the lamp before it.

“Holy Mother,” she prayed. “Let all be well soon.”

There was much that was wrong, she knew. It was not only the plague; that was a frequent visitor. There were ugly rumors about her father. She had heard the servants whispering; she had not told anyone she had heard, because servants might be whipped or even more terribly punished for saying some of the things which she had overheard. They had said that the Pope’s position was insecure and that there were many who wanted him to be removed and a new Pope set up in his place. Invasion was threatened by the French, and there were some who said that the Pope was a secret ally of Italy’s enemy.

All these matters made her very uneasy. She did not know much about her husband’s political feelings. They shared their bed now and she was in truth a wife, but a vaguely dissatisfied one. Giulia had said that he was cold; she had discovered that she herself was by no means so. She did not understand herself; desire—vague desire for someone unknown—was aroused in her, but it was not satisfied by Giovanni. She would lie beside him listening to his snoring and long to feel a lover’s arms about her. Not Giovanni’s. But there were times when she began to believe that any lover was better than none.

The love she experienced was very different from that which Giulia knew, but then Giulia’s lover was that incomparable man, Alexander.

Somewhere in the world there would be the lover she desired, for there must be other men in the world who had the qualities of the Borgias.

But these were her own affairs and Lucrezia was rarely selfish, so that the affairs of others invariably seemed of as great importance—if not greater—to her than her own.

She could find time to think of poor Cesare, more furious than ever because now danger threatened and he was unable to act. He longed to have his own condotta in the army; here was a chance for military glory, and he was denied it. Adriana had become very pious again and spent a lot of time on her knees, so it was clear that she was very worried.

She heard shouting from the piazza and as she ran to the balcony to see what was happening, Giulia fell almost fainting into her arms.

There was blood on Giulia’s forehead.

“What happened?” She looked from Giulia to the balcony.

“Do not go out there,” said Giulia. “Am I bleeding? They saw me there. A crowd gathered in no time. Did you hear what they said of me?”

“I heard the shouting. Please sit down. I will bathe your forehead.”

She clapped her hands and a slave came running.

“Bring me a bowl of water and soft cloths,” she cried, “and tell none why you bring them.”

Giulia looked at Lucrezia earnestly. “They called me lewd names,” she said. “And they mentioned the Holy Father.”

“They … they dare not!”

“But they dared, Lucrezia. That means that something more than we realize is happening in the city.”

“Do you think they mean to depose him?”

“He’ll never allow them to do that.”

The slave came in with the water. Lucrezia took it and Giulia said: “I fell as I stepped on to the balcony and I have grazed my forehead.”

The slave bowed and went away, but she did not believe Giulia.

They know of this trouble, thought Lucrezia. They know more than we have been allowed to.

It was impossible to keep secret the news that stones had been thrown at the Pope’s mistress who was on a balcony of Lucrezia’s palace. When Alexander heard of it he came hurrying to them.

In spite of the dangerous position in which Alexander knew himself to be, his greatest concern at that moment was the safety of his mistress and daughter.

He embraced them tenderly and for the first time since the war clouds had appeared over his head he showed anxiety.

“But, my darling, let me see this wound. We must make sure there is no infection. Holy Mother of God, it might have been your eye. But the saints have preserved you, my precious one, and the wound is not great. And, Lucrezia, oh, my precious little daughter, you were unhurt. I thank the Virgin for that.”

He held them both against him as though he would never let them go, and as each looked up into his face, she was aware of the conflict there.

“You must not be anxious, dearest Father,” said Lucrezia. “We will take the greatest care. We will not venture on to the balcony until all this trouble is over.”

The Pope released them and went thoughtfully to the figure of the Madonna. He stood beside it, his lips moving slightly. He was praying, and they were both aware that he was urging himself to make a decision.

Slowly he turned to them, and he was the old firm Alexander again.

“My darlings,” he said, “I now have to do something which grieves me as nothing else could. I am going to send you away from Rome.”

“Please do not do that, Father,” begged Lucrezia. “Let us stay with you. We will promise never to go out. But to be away from you would be the worst that could befall us.”

He smiled and laid a hand on her head.

“And my Giulia, what has she to say?”

Giulia had thrown herself at his feet and taken his hand. Giulia was thinking: Something more terrible than even the plague is threatening Rome. The French armies may invade us … they will set up a Pope of their own choosing, and who knows what will happen to Alexander?

Giulia had found Alexander a very satisfactory lover, accomplished and experienced; she did not doubt that she had been fortunate in having the best tutor in Rome. But part of Alexander’s attraction had been his power; the knowledge, first that he was the richest Cardinal in Rome, and later the Pope himself. Such was Giulia’s nature that all this had added to her pleasure. To imagine him without his glory, perhaps a humiliated prisoner of the French, made him appear a different person from the all-powerful, ever-indulgent and generous lover by whom it was an honor to be loved.

Giulia was therefore not entirely dismayed by the thought of retirement to a safe place until it had been settled whether or not Alexander was to retain his power.

She gave no sign of this; and Alexander who would have immediately detected duplicity in a statesman, was unaware of it in his mistress. This was partly due to that constant desire to see only that which he wished to see.

He was as devoted to Giulia as ever. The gap in their years made her seem, even now that she was a mother, a young and artless girl. Her passion had always seemed spontaneous; her joy in him as great as his in her. Therefore he believed that she would be as heartbroken to leave him as he would be to lose her.

“We will not leave you,” said Giulia. “We will face anything, Holy Father, rather than do so. I would rather die of the plague or at the sword of foreign soldiers than …”

“Stop, I beg you,” said Alexander wincing. “You know not what you are saying.”

Giulia had recovered herself; she stood up and her face was as guileless as Lucrezia’s. She said: “Tis true, is it not, Lucrezia? We would rather face … anything … anything …” She paused that Alexander might visualize the utmost horrors.… “Yes,” she continued, “anything rather than leave you.”

Lucrezia threw her arms about her father. “It is true, dearest Father,” she cried; and she meant it.

“My darling girls!” murmured Alexander, and his voice was broken with emotion. “But it is because I love you as I do that I must be relentless in this matter. I cannot allow you to stay. I cannot imagine how dark my life will be without you; all I know is that it would be even darker if aught happened to you through my selfishness in keeping you here. The French are gathering their forces. They are a strong nation, and determined to have Naples. But they will not be content with Naples. Who can tell, we may see foreign soldiers in Rome. And my beloved, my Giulia, you think of death at the hands of foreign soldiers, but it is not always as simple as that. You are so young … so very beautiful. There were never two more lovely creatures in the world. And what would your fate be if you were to fall into the hands of brutal soldiery, think you? I will not think of it. I dare not think of it. I prefer to lose the brightness of your presence rather than think of it.”

“Then let us go away for as short a time as is necessary to ease your mind,” soothed Giulia.

“I hope it will not be too far from Rome,” added Lucrezia wistfully.

“Rest assured, my precious ones, that as soon as it is safe for you to be here, I shall hold you in my arms again.”

He embraced them both and continued to hold them against him.

“These are my plans, my dearest girls. Lucrezia shall visit her husband’s domain of Pesaro. It is to Pesaro that I propose to send you both.”

There was one who was filled with delight at the prospect of leaving Rome, and that was Giovanni Sforza. He assured the Pope that his first care should be the two girls whom the Holy Father was placing under his protection, and he fervently agreed with His Holiness that Rome in this May of the year 1494 was no place for them.

So on a beautifully sunny day there was gathered in St. Peter’s Square a crowd of babbling servants and excited slaves to complete the cortège which was to journey to Pesaro. Giulia declared that she could not travel without her hairdressers, dressmakers, and all the servants necessary to her comfort; Lucrezia, knowing how those of her retinue would grieve if left behind, was equally insistent that hers should accompany her. In vain did Giovanni Sforza point out that they would have less need of all their fripperies in quiet Pesaro; the girls would not listen; and Giovanni, eager only to escape from Rome as quickly as possible, gave way.

Adriana, with her priests and servants, was also in the procession; and the Pope stood on his balcony watching until he could see the last of those two golden heads which brought so much pleasure into his life.

When they had gone he retired to his apartments and shut himself away to mourn their absence. He gave himself up to the study of the political stiuation, determined that he would employ every ounce of energy he possessed to make Rome a safe place, so that he might bring back his beloved girls to brighten his life.

As they left Rome behind them Lucrezia was surprised to see how Giulia’s spirits rose.

“One would think,” she said, “that you are glad to leave the Holy Father.”

“It is no use harboring melancholy which can do nothing but make further melancholy. Let us forget we are in exile from our Holy Father and our beloved city. Let us make the most of what we have.”

“That will not be easy,” said Lucrezia. “Did you not notice how sad he was?”

“He is the wisest man in Rome,” Giulia assured her. “He will very soon cast off his sorrow. It is he who has taught me my philosophy of life. He’ll soon be making merry. Therefore let us also make as merry as we can.”

“That is certainly his philosophy,” agreed Lucrezia.

“Then let us be gay … I wonder what kind of city this Pesaro is.”

On they went northwards across the leg of Italy, and through every town they passed the people turned out to see the strangers from Rome. They marvelled at the two golden-haired beauties in their rich dresses; they stared at little Laura, who was with her mother, and marvelled because they had heard rumors that this child, like the golden-haired Lucrezia, was the Pope’s own daughter.

They hung out banners of welcome, and the lords of the various towns through which they passed entertained them royally. Such entertainments amused the people and, as no one was sure yet that Alexander would be deposed, it would be unwise to offend, at this stage, one who, legend had it, was endowed with superhuman powers.

Giovanni Sforza’s spirits rose as the distance between himself and Rome increased. He took on new stature; he even became something like the lover of whom Lucrezia had dreamed; and she, always ready to be contented, found that, as far as her married life was concerned, she had never been happier.

How Giovanni glowed with pride to see the banners displayed in their honor, to be treated as an equal by some of the lords such as those of Urbino who had previously thought themselves far above him.

Giovanni was realizing at last the honor which could come to him through his union with the Borgias, and that made him tender toward his wife and very eager to please her; and since she was ready to be pleased, the harmonious relationship between them continued all through that journey.

Sforza sent notice of their impending arrival to Pesaro and instructed his servants there that he wanted a welcome such as they had never given before; he wished flowers to be strewn in the streets and banners to be set up; he wanted verses to be written so that on their arrival they might be recited to him and his bride.

And so he was delighted as they made the arduous journey across the Apennines, and he congratulated himself on having a wife who was not only easy to arouse to ardor, who was not only a beauty, but the daughter of a man who, even if his power was threatened, most would agree, was the mightiest in Italy.

So he prepared for the triumphant entry into Pesaro.

Lucrezia and Giulia had not failed to wash their hair the night before the day of the entry. Lucrezia was to wear a rich gown embroidered with gold, and her golden hair was to be caught up in a net set with many jewels.

She lay beside her husband thinking of the next day, sleepily remembering the passion he had shown during the journey, passion of which she had not thought him capable. She wished that he would wake up and that there might be more lovemaking.

Then she wondered what was happening in Rome and whether her father had recovered from his unhappiness. Giulia did not seem to regret very much that they had left him, although it was certain that he would have found comfort with another woman.

Strange that Giulia did not care. But perhaps it was as well, for if Giulia had cared she would be unhappy, and as the Pope would undoubtedly find means of comforting himself, it was fortunate that Giulia should be reconciled to the parting.

The wind was rising, and she could hear the rain beating down.

She hoped the sun would be shining in the morning.

“Giovanni,” she murmured, “do you hear the wind rising?”

He was not very handsome; he was not like the lover of whom she had dreamed; but she had always been ready to compromise. She would endow him with beauty and with qualities he did not possess, and think of him as she wished him to be, rather than as he was.

She touched his cheek lightly with her finger. His face twitched and he put up a hand as though to brush away a fly.

“Giovanni,” she whispered.

But he only snored.

They rode into Pesaro in heavy rain and violent storm.

From the windows hung bedraggled banners; some had been blown down and lay neglected on the ground. The Lord of Pesaro had commanded that there should be banners, and banners his subjects provided; but the wind was cruel and obeyed no lord; so the entry into Pesaro was not the triumphal affair which its Lord had planned.

Giulia was angry; the rain had saturated her lovely hair so that it looked dark yellow instead of gold. Her beautiful dress was ruined.

“A curse on Pesaro!” cried Giulia, and wished herself in Rome.

Adriana murmured prayers as they rode. Her clothes were clinging to her uncomfortably, and the wind caught at her hair beneath its net; she felt undignified thus, and her dignity meant much to Adriana. Still she was calm and there was a certain triumph in her face. She was telling herself: “Anything will be better than Rome at this time.”

Lucrezia’s beautiful dress was ruined and her hair in the same state as Giulia’s. One of her servants had found a large cape which she wrapped about her mistress so that all her glory was hidden to those few who had endured the wind and rain to watch the entry of the new Countess.

“I doubt not,” she said to Giulia, “that the sun will shine tomorrow.”

“As doubtless we shall be in bed, nursing fevers, that will matter little to us,” grumbled Giulia.

They came to the Sforza palace and here, as ordered, were the poets waiting to read their verses of praises to their Lord and his bride.

So they must all stand in the rain and the wind whilst, huddled beneath the arches, the shivering poets read their verses welcoming their Countess to her home in sunny Pesaro.

Giulia sneezed, while Adriana silently prayed that the poets had kept their verses short, and Lucrezia, her beauty hidden by the great cloak, and her golden hair falling about her face in strands like dull yellow serpents, smiled as was expected of her, but her relief was obvious when the address was over.

What joy to be inside the palace, to dry and warm themselves by the great fire, to eat hot food and giggle with Giulia about the terrible journey to Pesaro which they would enjoy recalling because it was over.

But with the next day came the sunshine, and there was Pesaro before them in all its beauty.

Lucrezia, looking at the lovely expanse of Adriatic on which the town stood, the green hills surrounding it in a charming semi-circle at each end of which were the tall mountains of Accio and Ardizio, was delighted with her new home.

“Here,” she told Giulia, “one feels shut away from the rest of the world.”

“That is why we were sent here, to be safe until the conflict passes.”

“I believe I could be happy,” said Lucrezia, “if my father and my brothers were with me.”

“Oh, Lucrezia, you will have to learn to be happy without your father and your brothers.”

During the next days Lucrezia tried to be.

Giovanni’s subjects had done their best to entertain their Countess in such a way that she would know how pleased they were to have her among them. There were banquets, dances, and carnival. The little streets of the town were full of laughing people, of clowns in grotesque costumes, and jugglers who had their tricks to perform in honor of Madonna Lucrezia. There had never been such gaiety in Pesaro, declared the people, and it was all in honor of the new Countess.

Lucrezia appeared among them and won their hearts, not only with her golden beauty, but with her obvious appreciation of all that they were doing for her.

Giulia and Lucrezia put their heads together and devised a program of merrymaking, determined to make the people of Pesaro see such magnificence as they had never seen before. They brought out their most splendid dresses that they might dazzle the provincials and give them a glimpse of how splendid Roman society was.

They were determined to outshine a local beauty, Caterina Gonzaga di Montevecchio, of whom they had heard so much, but they were a little apprehensive, as the fame of this woman’s beauty had traveled as far as Rome.

They washed their hair, put on their jeweled nets, each assuring the other that she had never looked more beautiful; the dresses of silk and brocade set with gems which they were wearing were such as they would have worn for a state occasion in Rome. Thus magnificently dressed they set out, with Giovanni as their escort, for the Gonzaga ball.

It was an evening of triumph. They studied the far-famed beauty and discovered that although she had a beautiful skin and figure, her nose was fat, her teeth ugly and her hair was insignificant beside the long gold tresses of Guilia and Lucrezia.

Giulia became hilariously gay; Lucrezia more serenely joyous; and as soon as they arrived back at the Sforza palace they sat down to write to the Holy Father and tell him all about it, describing the appearance of Caterina, because they knew His Beatitude may have had the impression that she was more beautiful than she really was.

Giulia added that Lucrezia was satisfied with her new home and that she was in good health. The people of Pesaro were devoted to Sforza, she wrote, and there had been continual festivities, dancing, singing, and masques. As for herself, being absent from His Holiness, on whom all her happiness depended, she was unable to take any delight or satisfaction in the gaiety. Her heart was with one who was the treasure of her life. She trusted that His Holiness would not forget them but soon bring them back to him.

Such letters delighted the Pope. He demanded that they should write every day, and assured them that every detail of their lives was of the utmost importance to him.

This appeared to be so because, although the French were about to invade Italy and his enemies within the peninsula were seeking to depose him, he was quite happy when he received letters from his beloved girls.

And when some weeks later news reached him that Lucrezia was confined to her bed with a fever, he was thrown into an agony of fear for her life. He shut himself into his apartments, would see no one, blamed himself for allowing her to go away from him while he made feverish plans for bringing her back despite the dangers.

He wanted them with him. He could not enjoy life without them. He wrote that absence from Giulia aroused within him a demon of sensuality which could only be placated by her; of all his children, he realized now there was none he cared for as for his golden-haired little beauty. How could he have thought that the love he bore his sons could compare with that which a man such as he was must feel for one as delicately formed, as exquisitely beautiful, as his Lucrezia. They must return. They must not be parted again. Whatever the dangers they must face them together.

“Donna Lucrezia, my beloved daughter,” he wrote in anguish. “You have given us days of deepest misery. There was evil news in Rome, bitter and terrible news that you were dead or that there was no hope for your life. You will understand the sorrow caused us on account of the great love we bear you which is greater than that which we have for anyone else on Earth. We thank God and our Glorious Lady that they have removed you from danger, but we shall not be happy until we see you in person.”

So the letters traveled back and forth between Rome and Pesaro and, although it seemed to many that Alexander was on the edge of disaster, he refused to acknowledge this and declared that he would give all he had for the return of his darlings.

Giovanni Sforza wanted nothing so much as to stay in Pesaro; there he believed he was sheltered from the disasters of invasion; the French would surely not cross the Apennines to take possession of such an insignificant Dominion. Moreover Lucrezia, removed from the influence of her father, was a contented and loving wife. Why should they not stay in Pesaro for the rest of their lives?

There was one drawback to this. On account of his post in the Church he was in the pay of the Pope; and although as a Sforza he worked for Milan, his kinsman Ludovico, preparing for invasion of which he knew he must be one of the first victims, had little time or money to spare for Giovanni. Therefore Giovanni’s income from Milan had not been paid for some time and, if he disobeyed the Pope by keeping his daughter from him, how could he expect his income from the Papacy to be paid?

Giovanni was a perplexed man during those weeks of festivities when Lucrezia and Giulia were flaunting their fine clothes and splendor at his provincial court.

Alexander understood his son-in-law perfectly. A meek man, a coward of a man, thought Alexander; the kind of man whom he despised. He knew that Giovanni was cowering in Pesaro, far from the impending conflict, and hoped to stay there keeping Lucrezia from her father.

That should not be; and, since if Giovanni decided to keep his wife at his side it would be a most delicate matter for the Pope to demand her return, Alexander arranged that Giovanni Sforza should be given a Neapolitan Brigade, and sent orders to Pesaro that he should at once set out to take over his command.

When Giovanni received this communication he was dumb-founded.

He strode into Lucrezia’s apartment and demanded that she read the despatch from Rome.

“To leave at once … for Naples,” read Lucrezia. “You … Giovanni … to go to Naples? But your family and the Neapolitans have always been enemies.”

“That is so,” cried Giovanni. “What is your father planning? Does he wish to destroy me?”

“How could he wish to destroy my husband when he declares his greatest pleasure is in pleasing me?”

“Perhaps he thinks that by destroying me he would not displease you.”

“Giovanni!” Lucrezia’s wide eyes were imploring him to say no more. She greatly feared scenes such as this.

“Oh yes,” stormed Giovanni. “He wants you back with him. He cannot exist without you. Is that not what he says? Do you think I do not understand why? Do you think I am a fool?”

“He is my beloved father, it is true.”

Giovanni laughed aloud. “Your beloved father! That is amusing. The whole of Italy laughs. The Pope is the beloved father of Madonna Lucrezia, and he yearns to shelter her beneath the apostolic robe.”

“Giovanni, you are hysterical.”

It was true. Giovanni was terrified. He saw himself caught in the Papal web. His relatives in Milan had no time for him; his father-in-law, the Pope, wished him out of the way; therefore he was to be sent to the enemies of his family. What would become of him?

“I shall refuse to obey the Pope’s commands,” he said. “Does he think I do not see what they mean?”

“Oh, Giovanni,” said Lucrezia, “you would be ill-advised to disobey my father.”

“You would advise me to obey, would you not! You would say ‘Go to the Neapolitans. Accept this command with them. You are a Sforza and sworn enemy of the Neapolitans, but go, go … because my father wishes you out of the way, so that I may return to him … and that I may live close to him, and the rumors may grow and grow … and grow.…’ ”

He began to laugh, but his face was twitching with fear.

She sought to calm him; but he only shouted: “I shall not go—do you hear me? I shall not go.”

There was further trouble. News came from Capodimonte, Giulia’s native town, that her brother Angelo was very ill and the family believed that he could not live.

Giulia was distraught. She was very fond of her family, particularly her brothers Angelo and Alessandro.

She came to Lucrezia, and never in the course of their friendship had Lucrezia seen Giulia so distressed.

“It is news from my home,” Giulia explained.

“My dearest Giulia, how sorry I am!” cried Lucrezia. “We must pray that all will be well.”

“I must do more than pray,” Giulia told her. “I shall go to him. I cannot let him die without seeing him again.”

“You remember my father’s orders … We were not to leave Pesaro without his consent.”

“My brother is dying, do you understand? What if Cesare or Giovanni were dying? Would you not go to them?”

“But it is not Cesare, nor Giovanni,” said Lucrezia calmly. “It is only Angelo.”

“He is as much my brother as Cesare and Giovanni are yours.”

But Lucrezia could not concede that. Giulia did not understand the bonds which bound the Borgia family. And the Pope would be angry if Giulia left Pesaro to go to her family.

“Why,” pointed out Lucrezia, “Orsino is at Bassanello, and that is not very far from Capodimonte. You know how my father dislikes you to be anywhere near your husband.”

“I need not see Orsino.”

“But he might come to you. Oh, Giulia, if you value my father’s love, do not go to Capodimonte.”

Giulia was silent. She was torn between her desire to see her brother and her wish to please the Pope.

Giovanni left for Naples. Lucrezia said farewell to him without any great regret. During the last days she had seen what a weak man she had married, and she longed for the strength which she had always admired in her father and brothers.

Giovanni, furious and humiliated, had decided that as he could not serve the enemies of his family he would pretend to do so and send information to his family as to the moves made by the Neapolitan army. He would be doing dangerous work, and if he were discovered, as a spy he would be in acute danger. But what could he do? How else could he reconcile himself with his family? He was a small ruler of a small community; he was a provincial lord who could not live without the support of his family and the Pope.

Gloom descended on the palace after Giovanni had left. There were no more entertainments; the girls had no inclination for them. They would sit in the apartment, Lucrezia amusing Laura while Giulia watched at the window for a messenger from Capodimonte.

There came a day when that messenger arrived, and the news he brought was grave. Angelo Farnese was on his death-bed; there was no doubt of that; he had expressed a desire to see his beloved sister Giulia who had brought so many honors to the family. That decided Giulia.

She turned to Lucrezia. “I am leaving at once for Capodimonte,” she said. “I am determined to see my brother before he dies.”

“You must not go,” insisted Lucrezia. “My father will be displeased.”

But Giulia was firm, and that day she, with Laura and Adriana, set out for Capodimonte.

Giovanni, Giulia, Laura and Adriana had gone.

What changes, pondered Lucrezia, as she was left in loneliness at Pesaro, were taking place all around her.

In the Orsini castle at Bassanello, Orsino Orsini was brooding.

Like Giovanni Sforza, he was a weak man. Giovanni could never forget that he belonged to a small branch of the Sforza family and was despised by his wealthier relations; Orsino could not forget that he was small in stature, that he squinted, and that not even humble serving girls were eager for his attentions.

Often he brooded on the way he was treated. It seemed that they had mocked him even more than was necessary by marrying him to one of the most beautiful women in Italy, one who had already become the Pope’s mistress before she was his wife.

It was as though they said: “Oh, but it is only Orsino, and Orsino is of no account.”

His mother even had played a prominent part in his humiliation. “Don’t be silly, Orsino,” she had reproved him. “Think what favors Giulia can make the Pope bestow on you. Riches! Land! They are more profitable than a wife. In any case if it’s women you want there will be many at your disposal.”

La Bella Giulia! She was notorious throughout Italy. The Pope’s mistress! Mother of the Pope’s child! And she was married to Orsino who was never allowed to go near her for fear of offending the Pope!

Orsino swore an oath.

“This is an end to my humiliation. She has left the Pope. She is at Capodimonte and, by all the saints, I swear she shall be my wife in truth. I swear to take her from her lover.”

From his castle he looked out on the little village clustered about the old church with its campanile, six stories high; he gazed at the quiet valley through which the Tiber flowed. About him, all seemed at peace. But if he did what they expected of him he would not long enjoy peace. His family were firm allies of the Neapolitans and he was in command of a brigade. Soon he would have to leave this place and join the Neapolitan camp. Then he would be far away from Giulia and, if the Pope heard she had come to Capodimonte to visit her dying brother, he would not be so disturbed as he would be if he knew that Orsino Orsini was in the neighborhood.

But why should one placate the Pope? Why was it so necessary now? The French were on the way with a mighty army, and it was said that one of their objects would be to depose Alexander. Well then, was there the same need to placate the Pope?

“By the saints, I will have what is mine!” vowed Orsino.

He sent for one of his captains, and when the man came to him he said: “You will take the troops to Umbria. I have orders that they are to proceed there.”

The man acknowledged the order but Orsino saw the astonished look which came into his eyes.

“I am feeling unwell,” Orsino explained. “I feel a fever creeping upon me. I cannot accompany you. I must remain behind for a while.”

He was smiling slyly as he dismissed the captain.

Now he had taken the first step.

The Holy Father was about to lose a mistress, and he, Orsino Orsini, was about to gain a wife.

When his men had left he set out for Capodimonte where both his mother and Giulia were surprised to see him.

“But what means this?” cried Adriana. “Should you not be with your men in camp?”

“I will be where I wish to be,” said Orsino.

Giulia cried: “But we understood you had orders.”

Orsino regarded her intently. It was not for nothing that she was known as La Bella throughout Italy. He was suddenly tortured by a hundred images of what her lovemaking with that connoisseur of love, the Holy Father, must have been; and he was maddened by mingled anger and desire.

He answered her: “The time has come when I have decided to order my own life.”

“But …” began Giulia.

“And yours,” said Orsino.

“This is madness,” retorted Giulia. She looked at her mother-in-law, but Adriana was silent. She was thinking quickly. She did not believe that Milan would stand up against the onslaught of the French. She believed that very soon the foreigners would be in Rome. If they reached Rome, then Alexander’s days as Pope were numbered. A woman as shrewd as Adriana did not go on placating a man about to fall. If Italy were invaded it would be families such as the Orsinis and Colonnas who would survive; and Orsino, squint-eyed though he might be, was a powerful Orsini. Let him show a little spirit and his physical deformity would be forgotten.

Adriana lifted her shoulders. “He is your husband when all is considered,” she answered.

And she left them together.

Giulia, startled, faced Orsino.

“Orsino, do not be foolish,” she said.

He had approached her, and seized her by the wrist.

“You know,” she cried, “that the Pope has forbidden you to come near me.”

He laughed, and gripping her by the shoulders shook her roughly. “Has it not occurred to you that it might be my place to forbid the Pope to come near you?”

“Orsino!”

“La Bella,” he said, “you have brought great profit to your family. You have considered all the demands they have made upon you.” His eyes were on her smooth white neck on which she wore the sparkling diamond necklace which had been a gift from her lover. He pulled the necklace and the clasp snapped. He flung it from him without looking where it fell. And it was as though, as his hands touched her warm flesh, he made a decision. There would be no more prevarication. Not even for a moment.

“If you touch me,” she cried, “you will have to answer to …”

“I answer to none,” he said. “I would remind you of something which you seem to have forgotten … now, as when you married me. You are my wife.”

“Think carefully, Orsino.”

“This is not the time for thinking.”

She pressed her hands against his chest; her eyes were imploring; the lovely golden hair escaped from its net.

“Now!” he said. “This moment.…”

“No,” she cried. “I will not. Orsino … I hate you. Let me go. At a time like this! My brother dying … and … and …”

“There should have been other times,” he said. “A hundred times … a thousand times. I’ve been a fool, but I’m a fool no longer. Those times have passed. This shall not.”

She was breathless, determined on escape. But he was equally determined; and he was the stronger of the two.

After a while she gave up struggling.

Angelo was dead. He had embraced his sister for the last time and told her that she must always thank the Virgin for her beauty and remember that through it she was able to lay the foundations of her family’s greatness.

He did not know what was happening beyond the palace walls. He did not know what was happening within them. She was never free from Orsino. He was full of demands; he insisted on his rights; and he would take no refusal.

She herself was a sensual woman and as such was beginning to find a certain excitement in her encounters with Orsino.

Alexander would be furious, but she was powerless. She was a prisoner in Capodimonte at the mercy of a husband who had been kept away from her for years. Alexander was an accomplished lover, Orsino something of a boor, but the boor provided a stimulating change; and it amused her to submit to what was almost rape and yet was legitimate behavior for a married pair.

She was sorry Lucrezia was not with her, so that she might have confided in her.

As for the Orsini family, they naturally supported their kinsman. Orsino was within his rights in his demands, they declared. Her lover? They could laugh now at an old man in decline. He would not last long.

Adriana had changed too. “I must support my son,” she declared. “It is the most natural thing in the world that he should insist on his wife’s living with him.”

News of what had happened eventually reached Alexander.

Never had anyone seen him so furiously angry as he was at that time. He paced up and down his apartments, threatening excommunications right and left. He would not leave Giulia in the hands of that boor, that cross-eyed idiot. She must be brought back to Rome at once.

Why had she been allowed to leave Pesaro? What of his daughter? Was she conniving at this plot against him?

He wrote to Lucrezia. It was bad enough, he wrote, that a daughter should be so lacking in filial love that she showed no wish to return to her father, but that she should disobey him passed all understanding. He was bitterly disappointed in one whom he had loved beyond everything on Earth. She was deceitful and indifferent to him, and the letters she was writing to her brother Cesare were not written in the same sly way as were those she wrote to him.

When Lucrezia heard thus from her father she was desperately unhappy.

There had always been quarrels between Giovanni and Cesare, but never between her and the other members of her family. And that her father should write to her in this way wounded her deeply.

Desperately lonely, she fell into a mood of melancholy. What had happened to the beloved family? They were all separated now. No wonder there was misunderstanding. Giovanni was in Spain, and Goffredo in Naples. Cesare was in Rome, wrapped up in his bitterness particularly now that war threatened. And most dire tragedy of all, her father loved her so little that he could vent his anger, at Giulia’s betrayal, on her, his daughter Lucrezia.

She could only try to ease her sorrow by writing to her father. She implored him to believe that she had been unable to prevent Giulia’s leaving Pesaro, and that she had done all in her power to stop her going. Her letters to him were as loving, as tender and as truthful as those she wrote to Cesare. He could always be sure of her love and devotion. “I long to be,” she wrote, “at the feet of Your Beatitude, and I long to be worthy of your esteem, for if I am not I shall never know satisfaction and have no wish to live.”

When Alexander received this letter, he wept and kissed it tenderly.

“Why did I doubt my beloved girl?” he asked. “My Lucrezia, my little love. She will always be faithful to me. It is others who disobey and deceive.”

But what an unhappy man he was! The “demons of sensuality” were gnawing at him, and he could not shut out of his mind pictures of Giulia and the cross-eyed Orsino together.

The French fleet had a speedy victory over the Neapolitans at Rapallo. The French armies crossed the Alps and the Italians found themselves outmatched from the start. These armies under the white banners of the Valois were advancing through Italy. At Pavia Charles VIII found the poor half-demented Gian Galeazzo, the true Duke of Milan; and when his beautiful young wife Isabella threw herself at the feet of little Charles, the French King was so moved, because she was beautiful and had suffered so much, that he promised that he would do all in his power to restore her husband. However, Ludovico’s friends hastily administered a posset to the young Duke, and within a few days he was dead. Ludovico was then declared Duke of Milan.

The news was bad for the Italians. Ludovico decided not to fight, and welcomed the French invaders as they swept through his land. The great captain Virginio Orsini also put up no fight, but issued the command that all were to give way to the invaders.

There was only one who seemed prepared to take a stand against the French: Alexander, the Pope.

He was contemptuous of the Italians. “They are despicable,” he cried. “Good for nothing but parading in fine uniforms. The only weapons the French need to conquer Italy are pieces of chalk, that they may mark their billets.”

He was determined that he would stand out alone if necessary against all his enemies.

Once again, as he had at the time of the death of Calixtus, Alexander showed the world the stuff of which he was made. No one could but admire that calm dignity, that assurance that he could not fail though all the world came against him.

The French King, Re Petito as the Italians called him, for he was deformed and made a strange sight riding in the midst of his stalwart troops, was a little disturbed about attacking a man who had the courage of Alexander. It seemed to him that there was a touch of divinity about the Pope after all. He therefore turned aside from the repeated prayers of Alexander’s enemies in Italy to go ahead and depose him.

Harm must not come to the Pope from him, Charles decided; if it did, he might have the whole of Catholic France and Spain against him.

Cardinal della Rovere, Alexander’s old enemy, who had allied himself with the French King, riding beside him and declaring that the French had come to deliver Italy from the yoke of Alexander, was dismayed. He saw once again that his plans to step into Alexander’s shoes were to be foiled.

The French must pass through Rome on their way to the south, but Charles decided that all he would ask for in Rome was the Pope’s permission for transit through the Papal states.

Meanwhile Alexander remained firm. He would resist the French demands, he said; a tremor of fear ran through all those who had been assuring themselves that Alexander’s days of power were over. Adriana and the Orsinis in Capodimonte were the first to falter.

Adriana upbraided her son for disobeying the Holy Father, and other members of the Orsini family joined with her and urged Orsino to leave at once for his brigade and not risk infuriating Alexander further.

Consequently Giulia awoke one morning to find that the masterful manners of her husband had been only temporary, and that he had fled.

There came a letter for Giulia from the angry Pope.

“Perfidious and ungrateful Giulia! You tell us you cannot return to Rome without your husband’s permission. Though now we know both the wickedness of your nature and those who advise you, we can only suppose that you wish to remain where you are so that you may continue relations with that stallion of a husband.”

Giulia read the letter in alarm; the Pope had never written to her in quite the same manner before; her family were beginning to criticize her for having turned against her lover for her husband’s sake, and the husband, who had been so bold, had fled at the first sign that Alexander’s power was unshaken.

Trembling she held her daughter to her.

“We should never have left Rome,” she said.

“Shall we go to see my father?” asked the little girl. She had refused to call the squint-eyed Orsino, Father; Father, to her, was a glorious god-like creature, tall, commanding, in beautiful robes with a deep sonorous voice, caressing hands and comforting affection.

“We shall,” said Giulia, determination shining in her eyes. She laughed suddenly. After all, she was La Bella, she could win back all she had lost.

She sent a slave to ask Adriana to come to her at once.

“I am leaving for Rome,” she told her mother-in-law as soon as she appeared.

“For Rome! But the roads are unsafe. The French invaders may be anywhere … before we reach Rome.”

But Adriana was looking intently at her daughter-in-law, and Giulia realized that, dangerous as the road might be, it was even more dangerous to remain under the shadow of Alexander’s displeasure.

So Giulia, Adriana and a small retinue set out from Capodimonte on their journey to Rome.

Giulia was in high spirits; so was Laura. Giulia was wondering how she could have been momentarily excited by the sudden masterful ways of Orsino who at the first hint of alarm had taken to his heels and fled. She was longing for reunion with her lover. Laura was prattling about going home and seeing her father again; Adriana was silently praying that the Holy Father had not been so angry toward herself and Giulia that he would never have the same feelings for them again. They were all eagerness to reach Rome.

The journey was long and tedious; the weather was not good, as it was November; but the gaiety of Giulia was infectious, and it was a merry party which traveled along the road to Viterbo.

Suddenly Laura pointed and cried out that she could see houses ahead of them. They pulled up to look, and there sure enough on the horizon was the town of Viterbo.

“It will not be very long now,” cried Giulia. “More than half the journey is done. I shall write to His Holiness when we reach Viterbo and tell him that we are on the way.”

“Listen!” said Adriana.

“What was that?” asked Giulia.

“I thought I heard the sound of horses’ hoofs.”

They waited. They could hear nothing, and Giulia laughed at her mother-in-law. “You are nervous. Did you imagine Orsino was galloping after us to take us back by force?”

Laura began to cry at the thought. “I want to see my father.”

“And so you shall, my darling. Have no fear. We shall be with him shortly. Come, let us waste no more time but ride with all speed into Viterbo.”

They started off, but this time it was Giulia who fancied she heard the sound of galloping horses.

They stopped again. This time there was no mistake. Giulia looked fearfully at her little party, mostly women.

“Let us go on with all speed,” she said. “We do not know whom we might meet on these roads at such times.”

They put spurs to their horses but it was not long before one of the women cried out that cavalry were advancing upon them.

They rode desperately on but nearer and nearer came their pursuers, and they were almost a mile from Viterbo when they were surrounded.

Adriana’s lips moved in silent prayer; Giulia was horrified when she recognized the uniform of the French invaders.

It was a desperate moment as they were forced to stop while the men surrounded them, and Giulia felt several pairs of eyes fixed upon her, knowing too well what those looks meant.

“Fair lady,” said the commander, “whither do you go in such a hurry?”

He spoke in French, and Giulia did not understand him very well. She turned to Adriana who was so terrified that she could only murmur prayers almost involuntarily while her mind ran on, visualizing the horrible things which could happen to the women at the hands of the invaders.

Laura, who was riding with her mother, suddenly cried out and flung her arms about Giulia as though to protect her from the strangers.

“By the saints,” said one man, “she’s a beauty!”

“Keep your eyes from her,” answered another. “She’ll be for the Captain. If you’re wise you’ll look more closely at one of the other girls—and be satisfied.”

Giulia said imperiously: “I am Giulia Farnese, wife of Orsino Orsini. You would be wise to allow me to pass. The Pope is my friend.”

One of the men pushed his way through to her and touched her golden hair wonderingly. She slapped his hand aside, and the man growled ominously.

Then someone said: “Look out. Here comes the Captain.”

A tall handsome man came riding up, and Giulia’s spirits rose at the sight of him, for he had an air of natural nobility about him, and there was a certain gentleness in his face which was very comforting at such a time.

“What have we here?” he cried.

The men, who had been handling some of the women, dropped back.

“A party of women and their servants, sir,” said the man who had led the band. “One’s a real beauty, sir.”

The commanding officer looked at Giulia and said slowly: “So I perceive.” Then he bowed and spoke in fluent Italian, with the faintest trace of a French accent.

“My lady, forgive my men’s roughness. I trust they have not insulted you.”

“But they have,” said Giulia. “And I would have you know that I am Giulia Farnese, the wife of Orsino Orsini. You have doubtless heard of me.”

He bowed again. “Who has not heard of the most beautiful woman in Italy? I see now that rumors have not lied. Madame La Bella, accept my apologies for what has passed. My name is Yves d’Allegre, at your service.”

“I am pleased to see you here, Monsieur d’Allegre,” said Giulia. “And now I am sure you will tell your men not to be foolish. We are in a hurry.”

“Alas, alas,” sighed Yves d’Allegre. “These roads are unsafe for beautiful ladies.”

“Then accompany us to Viterbo, and there perhaps it can be arranged that we shall have soldiers to protect us. A message to His Holiness the Pope telling him of our plight will call forth an immediate response.”

“I am sure it would,” said the Frenchman, his gaze taking in the beauty of her exquisite figure. “There is not a man in Italy or in France who would not serve you.”

Giulia’s fear was rapidly disappearing. The man was so charming. The French were notoriously gallant and the Captain had even more than French gallantry to offer. She was beginning to enjoy the adventure.

“Alas,” he went on, “your beauty is such, Madame, that it may so madden those who behold it that they forget the respect and honor due to a lady of your rank. I shall ask you to allow me to ride beside you into Montefiascone, when I shall protect you with my sword.”

“I thank you,” said Giulia. “But it is to Viterbo that we wish to go.”

“Alas, I am a soldier, with duties to perform. What a hard taskmistress duty is when she conflicts with pleasure! A thousand apologies, but I must take you and your party into Montefiascone.”

Giulia shrugged her shoulders. “Well then, when we are there, will you do this for me? Will you have a message sent to His Holiness to tell him what has befallen us?”

Yves bowed and said that he would certainly do that.

So, taking Giulia’s horse by the bridle and placing it at the head of the little band, with her beside him he led the party toward Montefiascone.

Montefiascone was already in the hands of the French and, as they approached the place, soldiers hurried out to look at them. There were shouts of delight when they saw the women, and many eyes were on Giulia. But Yves d’Allegre shouted stern orders. His prisoner was no ordinary woman. Any laying hands on her or her party would suffer immediate and drastic punishment.

The men fell back. They thought they understood. The Captain had selected the beautiful captive for himself.

Giulia herself believed this to be so and, as she looked at the handsome man riding beside her, she shivered, not without a certain pleasure, wondering what lay before her.

Yves rode with her into the town and, after he had had a short conversation with his superior officers, Giulia and her party were received with the greatest respect and lodged in one of the most comfortable houses of the town.

Giulia sent Laura to rest in the care of her nurse, and went to the room which had been allotted to her. She took off her cloak and shook her hair out of its net. She lay on the bed, thinking of all the strange things which had befallen her since she left Rome. Her mind went with distaste to the episode with Orsino; she told herself that she had been forced to participate in that affair, and was glad it had come to an ignoble end.

This … this would also be force majeure. The man was so charming, so handsome.…

But she waited in vain for the coming of Yves d’Allegre, for, while she was waiting, he was penning a note to the Pope telling him that La Bella Giulia was a captive in the hands of the French and that a ransom of 3,000 scudi was demanded for her safe conduct to Rome.

When Alexander heard the news he became frantic with anxiety that some ill might befall his mistress. He hastily collected the money, which was despatched at once. Then, trembling with anticipation, he found he could not wait patiently in the Vatican for the return of Giulia.

He must go to meet her. No matter if the French were at his gate; no matter if the whole world were laughing at an old man’s passion (and that man a Pope) for a young woman, he could not remain in the Vatican. He must ride out to greet her.

He was like a man of twenty. He ordered that fine clothes be brought to him. He wore a black doublet with a border of gold brocade; about his waist was a beautiful belt of Spanish leather, in which was a jeweled sword and dagger. On his feet were Spanish boots, and he wore his velvet beret at a jaunty angle.

Thus he rode out to greet Giulia and bring her back to Rome.

Giulia was delighted to see him. She now felt humiliated by her encounter with Orsino and piqued by that with Yves d’Allegre, but here was Alexander, the most important man in Italy—despite all the evil rumors of late—and he was her passionate and most devoted lover.

“Giulia, my darling!” cried the Pope.

“Most Holy Lord!” murmured Giulia submissively.

And if there was laughter throughout Rome because the Holy Father, dressed as a Spanish grandee, had behaved like a young man of twenty with his mistress, little Alexander cared. His position was precarious, the French were almost in Rome, he had his crown to fight for—but that seemed little to a man of his immense genius for statecraft. His mistress was delighted to be back, turning away from younger lovers to be with him.

There remained one other thing necessary to his complete content. Lucrezia must be brought back to Rome.

Alone in her husband’s palace at Pesaro, Lucrezia eagerly waited for news. Sometimes a wandering friar would come begging for food and a night’s lodging; sometimes a messenger would arrive with letters from her father; Lucrezia welcomed such visitors warmly, and listened eagerly to all they had to tell, for she felt shut away from the world behind the hills which encircled Pesaro.

She heard that the conflict was growing, that Charles of France was on his way to Rome; she heard of Giulia’s capture and release, and of the ransom which the Pope had gladly paid. She heard that her father had ridden out to meet his mistress dressed like a young man, a gallant Spanish grandee, and how happy he was to have Giulia with him once more.

Others might sneer at her father’s behavior. Lucrezia did not. She would sit at her window, looking out across the sea envying Giulia the affection and passion she inspired in the Pope, and thinking how different Alexander was from the cold man she had married.

But when she heard that the French were almost at the gates of Rome she trembled for her father.

There was no one in Rome who remained calmer than Alexander, as he considered the little King with his magnificent army, and the Italians who were eager to dress up and play at soldiers, but who were not so anxious to fight.

Cesare was with him at this time, sardonic because he had been denied the pleasure of defeating the French, losing no opportunity to point out to his father that had he been in charge of his condotta there would have been at least one company ready to hold back the invader.

He laughed scornfully and beat his fists against his chest.

“Oh, no! I must stay in the Church. I … who might have saved Rome, who might have saved Italy and would certainly have saved you from your present humiliating position, am not allowed to fight.”

“My dear son,” chid the Pope, “you are too impetuous. Let us not be so hasty. The battle is not over yet.”

“Is Your Holiness aware,” said Cesare, “that the French have stormed Civita Vecchia and that in a day or so they will be at the very gates of Rome?”

“I know it,” replied the Pope.

“And you intend to remain here so that the King can make you his prisoner and present you with his terms, to which you will have to agree?”

“You go too fast, my son. I am not yet little Charles’s prisoner. And I have no intention of being so. Wait awhile. See who, in a few months’ time, is the victor of the campaign. Do not, I pray you, make the mistake of placing yourself among my enemies who, from the moment the first French foot stepped onto Italian soil, have been telling themselves and each other that I am a defeated man.”

The calmness of Alexander had a soothing effect, even on Cesare.

But when the Pope saw the vanguard of the French army camping on Monte Mario, he knew that he must immediately, with his family, take refuge in the fortress of St. Angelo.

The entry into Rome of the French King was spectacular. It was growing dark when he and his army came marching into the City, and in the twilight they seemed more terrifying than they would by day. They came by the light of a thousand torches, and the Romans shivered to behold them. The Germans and Swiss, who earned their livelihood by fighting other people’s wars, were all stalwart men, strong and rough, as was to be expected. The French were fine soldiers and so far they had met nothing but easy victory. There were numerous noblemen accompanying the soldiers, and these were decked out with many a glittering jewel, mostly plunder, which had been picked up on the way to Rome. The Army took six hours to march past; there were the archers from Gascony and d’Aubigny’s Scotsmen whose pipers played stirring music as they marched; there were the macebearers and crossbowmen, and thirty-six bronze cannon. With the procession came the King, the least awe-inspiring of any. Surrounded by his victorious army, the deformed and stunted Charles looked pathetic in his golden armor.

Through the Via Lata went the column to the Palace of Saint Mark, where the King was to have his lodging; and the cannon were formidably drawn up in the piazza.

From his fortress Alexander and his entourage heard the shouts in the city of “Francia! Rovere!”

Cesare stood beside his father, clenching and unclenching his fists. He knew, as Alexander knew, that when night fell it would go hard with the citizens of Rome. There were tempting treasures in the houses—gold and silver plate, ornaments of majolica and pewter. And there were the women.

Rome, the eternal city, was about to be sacked.

And as they waited they heard the shouts, the screams, and the thousand tortured cries of a ravished city.

“There is my mother’s house,” said Cesare in a low voice.

“Grieve not for a house,” said the Pope. “Your mother will not be in it.”

“Where is my mother?” cried Cesare.

“Have no fear. I arranged that she should leave Rome with her husband some days ago.”

How could he be so calm? Cesare wondered. The fate of the Borgias was in danger; yet he who had made the name great could stand there listening to the sounds of horror, serene, as though this was nothing but a passing thunder-storm.

Cesare cried: “I will have my revenge on those brutes who enter my mother’s house.”

“I doubt not that you will,” said Alexander quietly.

“But what are you doing? Oh my father, how can you remain so calm?”

“There is nothing else to be done,” said Alexander. “We must wait for a propitious moment to make terms with il Re Petito.”

Cesare was astounded, for it seemed to him almost as though Alexander did not understand what was happening. But Alexander was thinking of another crisis in his life. Then his uncle had lain dying and the whole of Rome was crying out against the friends of Calixtus. Alexander’s brother, Pedro Luis, had fled from Rome and consequently had never realized his great ambitions. Alexander had stayed, counting on his dignity and bold strategy; and Alexander had lived to succeed in his ambitions.

This was what he would do again.

In the Borgia apartments of the Vatican the little French King fidgeted. He paced up and down looking out of the windows across the gardens, beyond the orange trees and pines to Monte Mario.

He felt somewhat aggrieved. He came as a conqueror. Should he be expected to wait for the conquered? But this was no ordinary victim of a conquering army. This was the Holy Father himself, the head of the Catholic Church throughout the world. Charles was Catholic, his country was devoutly so; and Charles would never be able to cast aside the respect he felt for the Holy Father.

At last the Pope had agreed to discuss terms. What else could he do? The north of Italy was conquered; Charles was in command of Rome, ready to fight his way south to Naples and achieve his country’s great ambition.

The Pope had been forced to make terms. He had been besieged in Castle St. Angelo, but when a bullet had pierced the walls of that seemingly impregnable fortress, he had felt it was time to come out and talk peace terms. And those terms, decided the French King, would be his terms, for the Holy Father, a prisoner in his own city, would be forced to agree to them.

The January sun was shining on the gold and enamel of Pinturicchio’s murals, as yet not completed, and here portrayed were members of the Borgia family. Charles was studying them when he heard a movement in the room and turning saw a splendid figure in a golden mantle. For a moment he thought he was in the presence of a supernatural being and that one of the paintings on the walls had come to life. It was Alexander who had entered through a low and narrow doorway, and as the Pope advanced into the room, Charles fell to his knees immediately conscious of that great dignity.

Alexander bade him rise; his manner was paternal and benign.

“So, my son,” he said, “we meet.”

And from that moment he was in command; Charles could not think of himself as the conqueror in this presence; he could only speak with the utmost respect to the Holy Father who spoke to his son, as though bidding him take courage in spite of the predicament in which he found himself.

It was quite ridiculous, but nevertheless Charles stammered that he wished free passage through the Papal States, and that he had come to demand it.

The Pope’s eyebrows shot up at the word demand, but even as Charles was speaking he heard sounds of looting in the streets below and was brought back to reality, remembering that he was a conqueror and that the Pope was in his power.

“So you would ask for free passage,” mused the Pope. He looked beyond the French King, and he was smiling serenely as though he were looking into the future.

“Yes, Holiness.”

“Well, my son, we will grant you that, if you and your soldiers will leave Rome immediately.”

The King looked at one of his men who had stepped forward—a bold soldier who would not be impressed by his surroundings or the majestic personality of Alexander.

“The hostages, Sire,” he said.

“Ah yes, Most Holy Father,” said the King, “we should need hostages if we left you free in Rome.”

“Hostages. It seems a just demand.”

“Right glad I am that Your Holiness agrees on this. We have decided on Cesare Borgia and the Turkish Prince Djem.”

The Pope was silent for a while. Prince Djem, yes. They were welcome to him. But Cesare!

Outside he heard the piteous wails of women; he could smell smoke. Rome was being ravished. She was in flames and crying out to her Holy Father in her agony. He must save Rome through Cesare and Djem.

Looking out over the beautiful Adriatic Sea, Lucrezia felt her uneasiness growing. She knew that Giovanni was in a desperate situation; he was in the pay of the Pope and the Neapolitans, and was working for Milan. How could she blame him? Nothing would have induced her to work against her own family, so how could she blame Giovanni for what he was doing? Lucrezia characteristically tried not to think of her husband; he was an unpleasant subject.

But to brood on the affairs of her family seemed even more so. What was happening to the Borgias? When travelers arrived at the Sforza palace Lucrezia had them brought immediately to her; she would give them food and shelter and implore them to tell her what was happening to her father.

She tried to visualize the situation. The French in Rome; her mother’s house pillaged; her father forced to receive the little King of France and listen to his terms. And Cesare—proud Cesare—to be forced to ride out of Rome, a hostage of the conquerors. That was the worst thing that could have happened. She pictured his rage, and as she sat brooding, trying to turn her mind from unpleasantness, working a little with her needle, idly playing her lute, she was aware of disturbance below and, putting aside her work, she hurried down in case it should be messengers with news.

The arrival turned out to be that of a friar, humble and hungry, who was calling on the Lady of Pesaro to tell her the news—great news from Rome.

Lucrezia found it difficult to show him how delighted she was. She clapped her hands for slaves to bring him water with which to wash his tired feet; they brought wine and food for him; but before he was refreshed Lucrezia insisted on his telling her whether the news was good or bad.

“Good, lady,” he cried. “The best of good news. As you know, the French conqueror had audience with the Holy Father in the Vatican, and there it was necessary for his Holiness to come to terms.”

Lucrezia nodded. “And I know the terms included the giving of hostages, and that one of these was my brother Cesare.”

“ ’Tis so, Madonna. They rode out of Rome with the conquerors. The Cardinal Borgia and the Turkish Prince.”

“How was my brother? Tell me that. Angry I know he must have been since his pride was brought so low.”

“No, Madonna. The Cardinal was serene. All those who watched him marvelled—not only at his calmness but also at that of the Holy Father who could watch his son depart with what seemed like indifference. We did not understand then. The Cardinal took with him much baggage. There were seventeen wagons all covered with velvet, and this caused much amusement among the French. ‘What sort of a Cardinal is this,’ they asked each other, ‘to be so concerned with his possessions!’ And, as you will guess, Madonna, the Turkish Prince traveled with equal splendor.”

“So he rode out to the jeers of our enemies,” said Lucrezia, “yet he rode with serenity and dignity. Oh, but how angry he must have been.”

“He surprised them when the soldiers encamped at the end of the first day. I have heard that it was a sight to behold when he threw off his Cardinal’s robes and, stripped to the waist, wrestled with them and threw their champions.”

Lucrezia clasped her hands and laughed. “That would have delighted him. I know it.”

“They were astonished that a Cardinal should behave thus, Madonna. But the next night he had a greater surprise for them.”

“Tell me quickly, I beg of you. I cannot endure the suspense of waiting.”

“The second night they halted at Velletri, on the edge of the Pontine Marshes. All was quiet and none noticed when one of the muleteers rose and moved silently among the foreign soldiers. That muleteer made his way to a tavern in the town and there he found a servant waiting with horses. The muleteer mounted a horse, and he and the servant rode hotfoot to Rome.”

“It was Cesare, my brother!”

“It was the Cardinal himself, Madonna. He has rejoined the Holy Father in Rome, and I heard that there is much laughter and merrymaking in the Vatican on this account.”

Lucrezia laughed with pleasure.

“It is the best news I have heard for a long time. How he would have enjoyed that! And poor fat Djem, he did not escape?”

“Nay, the Prince remains with his captors. It is said that he lacked the stamina of His Eminence. He could not wrestle with the French; nor could he have managed to escape. He stays behind. But they have only one hostage where they wished for two; and the more important of the two—the Pope’s own son—has escaped them.”

Lucrezia rose to her feet and there before the friar danced a few steps of a Spanish dance.

The friar watched in astonishment, but Lucrezia only threw back her head and laughed as she whirled round and round until she was breathless.

Then she paused and explained: “I am carried away with joy. This is an omen. My brother has made a laughing stock of the French. It is a beginning. My father will rid Italy of the conquerors, and all men throughout the land will be grateful to him. This is the beginning, I tell you. Come! Now you shall eat your fill of the best we have in this palace. You shall drink the best wine. You must be merry. This night there shall be a banquet in the palace and you shall be our guest of honor.”

“Madonna, you rejoice too soon,” murmured the friar. “This is but the escape of a hostage. So much of Italy lies in the hands of the conqueror.”

“My father will save all Italy,” said Lucrezia solemnly.

But she was solemn only for a moment. Now she was calling to her slaves and attendants. She wanted them to prepare a banquet; there would be dancing and revelry in the palace this day.

Cesare had triumphed, and Cesare’s triumphs were as important to her as her own.

Lucrezia was right. That was the beginning of brighter prospects. The French were furious at the hoax played on them by Cesare, but there was nothing they could do about it. A protest to Alexander made him shake his head sorrowfully. “The Cardinal has behaved badly, very badly,” he murmured; and had to retire hastily to give vent to the laughter which shook him.

Fat little Djem could not stand up to the rigors of life with an army; he was stricken with fever and died. Thus in a short while the French were robbed of both their hostages.

However, they went marching on to Naples, where Alfonso, the King, hearing of their approach, hurried to Sicily leaving his kingdom in the hands of his son Ferrandino. But Ferrandino proved to be no soldier, and when he saw the French armies approaching, followed his father’s example—choosing the island of Ischia for his refuge, whither he went with his court—leaving Naples open to the invaders.

This seemed good luck for Charles, but the French King had reckoned without the climate and the indolence of his soldiers. Italy lay behind them, a conquered country, and they were encamped in sunny Naples. The women were luscious, the brothels were numerous, and the soldiers determined to enjoy a rest from the march.

Meanwhile Alexander had not been idle. Messengers had been riding hard back and forth between the Vatican and Venice, to Milan, to the King of Spain and to the Emperor Maximilian.

Alexander pointed out that unless they quickly became his allies, Italy would fall completely under the dominion of the French, and that this would be to the advantage of none of them.

When the French King heard of the alliances which were being formed he became alarmed. His soldiers were in a debilitated condition; moreover they were becoming insubordinate, and many of them were sick. Charles was about to receive the crown of Naples, when it occurred to him that this crown would be of little use to him if he was to wear it but for a week or so before his enemies overcame him.

There was only one way out of his difficulty. He must leave Italy with all speed. But on his way he would see the Pope, whom he rightly suspected of organizing his, Charles’s, enemies against him, and he would demand from him the investiture of Naples.

Charles left Naples and started the march northward, but Alexander, hearing of his approach, immediately left Rome for Perugia, so that when Charles reached Rome he found the Vatican deserted.

Fuming with anger, he could do nothing but continue his march.

He was bewildered. He had conquered the land with his victorious armies, and the rulers of states had fallen before him; then he had come to Rome, believing that the Borgia Pope was as much his vassal as those heads of states who had stood aside for him. It had seemed so. And yet … it was not so.

Charles went marching on, cursing the wily fox of the Vatican.

Alexander found life amusing at Perugia. Once again he had proved his strategy to be sound. It was as it had been at the time of the death of Calixtus. He had waited then, as now, serene, accommodating; and now, as then, his enemies had played into his hands.

With him were Giulia and Cesare; but there was one whom he sadly missed; his dearest daughter.

“Lucrezia must come to us here,” he told Cesare. “She has been parted from us too long.”

Cesare smiled at the prospect of seeing his sister again. He was feeling happier. His father had been highly amused by his adventure. Was he beginning to see what an asset Cesare would be as a commander of the armies? It was not like a Cardinal to wrestle, as he had, with soldiers, and to accomplish such a spectacular escape.

Cesare was twenty; he was growing in stature; and the Pope, for all his miraculous virility, was sixty-four years of age.

Cesare began to think of the day when his father would turn to him for advice, and when he, Cesare, would make the decisions.

Now they were in perfect accord, for they had both determined that Lucrezia should come to them at Perugia.

Giovanni Sforza, who was back in Pesaro, was not pleased by the message from the Pope.

He stormed into Lucrezia’s apartment where she was giving orders as to the packing of her baggage.

“You shall not go,” he said.

“Not go?” The light eyes were wide with incredulity. “But these are orders from my father.”

“I am your husband. It is I who shall say where you may go.”

“Giovanni, you cannot refuse to allow me to go.”

“I can and I will.”

He was bold; that was because he was thinking of the miles between Perugia and Pesaro. Poor Giovanni! thought Lucrezia. He is not a bold man.

But almost immediately she was alarmed, for she too remembered the distance between Pesaro and Perugia.

Giovanni was a weak man and as such he was always eager to show his strength when he thought he had a chance of doing so. Now he turned to her servants. “Take out the Countess’s gowns,” he said. “Put them back where they belong.”

Then he turned and left her.

Lucrezia did not storm or rage. She was like her father and was aware of the efficacy of diplomacy. She was convinced that after a short delay, she would be on her way to Perugia. So she smiled regretfully and sat down to pen a letter to her father.

Giovanni had his price. He was learning the necessity of bargaining. He was kept poor and of no importance, but the Borgias must remember that although his wife was the Pope’s daughter, as her husband he, Giovanni, had some control over her. Since she was so precious to them, they must show some respect to her husband.

He wanted to be freed from the invidious position into which they had thrust him. He wanted a new command; and since the Pope had made an alliance with Venice, why should he not be enrolled as a Captain in the Venetian army? The Pope could easily arrange this for his son-in-law; let him do it and, for such services, Giovanni Sforza would place no restrictions on his wife’s movements.

When the Pope heard of Sforza’s aspirations, he laughed aloud.

“Why,” he said to Cesare, “there is some spirit in the poor thing after all. I will see what can be arranged with the Doge.”

Cesare was scornful of his brother-in-law. He would have hated him, whoever he was, simply because he was Lucrezia’s husband, but it seemed humiliating to him that his sister should have had to accept such a man.

“ ’Tis a pity,” he said to his father, “that we cannot find some means of ridding Lucrezia of Sforza.”

The Pope’s gaze shifted a little. “Mayhap …” he murmured. “Sometime.… At the moment we will pass him to the Doge.”

Giovanni stormed up and down his wife’s apartments.

“So,” he cried, “I am to have a condotta in the Venetian army!”

“And you are glad, are you not?” asked Lucrezia lightly. “Was not that what you wanted?”

“I should have equal treatment with your brother,” shouted Giovanni.

“Is that not what you have? Giovanni Sforza and Giovanni Borgia both have commands in the Doge’s army. Is that not so?”

“Yes, it is so. We both have commands. But there is a difference. Your father has seen to that. I am to get four thousand ducats … your brother thirty-one thousand!”

“But Giovanni,” soothed Lucrezia, “if you had not heard what my brother was to have, you would have been happy with your four thousand.”

“But I have heard!” Giovanni’s veins stood out at the temples. “I am treated thus to show that I am of no importance beside your brother. Your father deliberately insults me. I shall not let you go.”

Lucrezia was silent for a few seconds; then she said demurely: “If you do not, then even the four thousand ducats will not be yours.”

Giovanni clenched his fists and stamped his foot. He looked as though he would burst into tears.

Lucrezia watched him dispassionately. She thought: Soon we shall set out for Perugia and when he has taken me there he will leave us.

She gave herself up to the pleasure of contemplating reunion with her father and Cesare.