Madonna of the Seven Hills

CESARE

Lucrezia was embraced by her father and Cesare, and how warm, how passionate were those embraces!

“I cannot understand how we managed to live without you,” declared the Pope.

“We have missed you more than we can tell,” Cesare murmured.

She turned from one to the other, taking their hands and kissing them. “Oh my father, oh my brother!” she cried. “Why is it that all other men seem small and insignificant beside you?”

They made her turn about as they studied each detail of her appearance. She had changed, declared Cesare; and temporarily his brow darkened; he was remembering that her marriage had now been consummated.

“Our little one grows up,” murmured the Pope. “I reproach myself. It would have been possible to have kept you with me, my dearest, through all the troubles.”

“There were many uneasy moments,” mused Cesare, “I think we should have suffered agonies of anxiety, Holiness, if our beloved one had been exposed to danger.”

“You are right, my son. And why should we grieve over what is past. Let there be a banquet to welcome my dearest child, and let me see you two dance and sing together.”

Cesare had taken her hand. “And what say you sister?”

“I long to dance with you. I long to show everyone how happy I am that we are re-united.”

Cesare had taken her face in his hands and was studying it intently. “How have you changed, sister?”

“I am a little older, nothing more.”

“More learned in the ways of the world,” said the Pope fondly and almost archly.

Cesare kissed her. “I trust, dearest sister, your ordeal has not been too tedious?”

She knew what he meant, and she laughed. “No, it was well enough.”

The Pope, watching them, laid his hand on Cesare’s shoulder. “Let her go now. Let her women dress her for our banquet. Then I shall see you two dancing together and I shall feel so happy because I have two of my dear ones under the same roof as myself.”

Lucrezia kissed her father’s hand and both men watched her as she left them.

“How enchanting she is!” said Cesare.

“I am beginning to believe she is the loveliest girl in Italy,” replied the Pope.

“I am sure of it,” Cesare said.

He looked at his father quickly. Giulia was losing her hold on the Pope, for he had not forgiven her since she had lived with her husband. He had made the grand gesture of riding out to greet her when he had paid her ransom, but Cesare was fully aware that Giulia was no longer the Pope’s favorite mistress, and he was glad. He had always been irritated by the rise to power of the Farnese family.

While he appeared to take frivolous pleasure in the revelries which were going on about him, Alexander was planning ahead. He now said to Cesare: “I hope it will not be long before we return to Rome. There is much we have to do if we are going to prevent near disasters arising such as that through which we have now passed. Cesare, we must concentrate on destroying the power of the barons who proved themselves to be so weak and feeble at the approach of the invader. I visualize a strong Italy.”

“A strong Italy under the Papacy,” agreed Cesare. “You need a strong army, Father, and good generals.”

“You are right, my son.”

Alexander saw the request rising to Cesare’s lips: Release me. See what a general I will make.

It was not the time, Alexander realized, to tell Cesare that as soon as he was in Rome he intended to bring back Giovanni from Spain. Giovanni should have charge of the Pope’s armies and he should go out and do battle against the Orsinis, who during the French invasion had shown themselves to be traitors to the Pope’s interest. When he had subdued them, rival families would see how powerful the Pope had become; they would conform to the wishes of the Borgia Pope or suffer likewise.

He would have enjoyed talking of these matters with Cesare, but clearly they could only lead to one subject: the recall from Spain of Giovanni.

It was so pleasant to have his dear Lucrezia with him; it made him happy to see Cesare’s delight in her and hers in him. Alexander did not want anything to spoil that pleasure, so deftly changed the subject.

“Our little Lucrezia …” he murmured. “I would we had found a husband more worthy of her.”

“It maddens me to think of that oaf … that provincial boor … near my sister.”

“We will arrange it so that he does not enjoy Perugia,” suggested the Pope.

Cesare was smiling again. “We must send him with all speed to the Doge,” he said. “Can it be arranged?”

“We must put our heads together, my son. Then we shall have Lucrezia to ourselves.”

Lucrezia lay on her bed, her hair damp about her. She felt a strange excitement as she recalled the pleasures of the previous night. It had been a grand banquet in the palace of Gian-paolo Baglioni, who as a fief-holder of the Church had deemed it his duty and pleasure to entertain the Holy Father.

Baglioni was a fascinating man, handsome and bold. There were stories in circulation about his cruelty, and his slaves and servants trembled at a stern look from him. Cesare had told her as they danced that in the dungeons below the palace those who offended Baglioni were tortured without mercy.

It seemed hard to believe that such a fascinating man could be cruel; he had shown nothing but kindness to Lucrezia. If she had seen anyone tortured at his command she would have hated him; but the dungeons were a long way from the banqueting hall, and the cries of victims could not reach the revelers.

Baglioni had watched her and Cesare as they danced, and his eyes were full of malicious amusement. So were those of others.

“The Spanish dances, Cesare,” she had whispered. “Our father would like to see us dance them.”

And they had danced, she and Cesare together, danced as she had danced with her brother Giovanni at her wedding. She had recalled those wedding dances, but had not referred to them; she did not want to make Cesare angry on such a night.

Baglioni had danced with a very beautiful woman, his mistress.

He was tender toward her and, watching them, Lucrezia whispered to Cesare: “How gentle he is! Yet they say that he inflicts terrible torture on those who offend him.”

Then Cesare had drawn her to him. “What has his gentleness toward her to do with his cruelty toward others?”

“Merely that it is difficult to believe that one who can be so gentle could also be so cruel.”

“Am I not tender? Am I not cruel?”

“You … Cesare … you are different from anyone else on Earth.”

That had made him smile; and she had felt his fingers gripping her hand so that she could have cried out in pain; but the pain inflicted by Cesare had always in some strange way delighted her.

“When we return to Rome,” he had told her, and the expression on his face had made her shudder, “I will do such things to those who violated our mother’s house as men will talk of for years to come. I will commit acts to equal those which take place in Baglioni’s dungeons. And all the time I shall love you, my sister, with the same fierce yet gentle love which you have had from me since you were a baby in your cradle.”

“Oh Cesare … have a care. What good can it do to remember what was done in the heat of war?”

“This is the good it can do, sister. It will show all those who took part that in future they must remember what they risk by daring to insult me or mine. Ah, you are right in saying that Baglioni loves that woman.”

“She is his favorite mistress, I have heard; and there can be no doubt of it.”

“Have you heard aught else concerning her, Lucrezia?”

“Aught else? I think not, Cesare.”

He had laughed suddenly, and his eyes had grown wild. “She is indeed his beloved,” he had said; “she is also his sister.”

It was of this Lucrezia was thinking as she lay on her bed.

Her husband came into the room and stood by the bed looking at his wife. Then he waved his hands to the woman who sat close by, stitching at one of Lucrezia’s gowns.

Lucrezia studied her husband through half-closed eyes. He seemed smaller, less imposing, here at Perugia than he had at Pesaro. There she had seen him as her husband and, being Lucrezia, she was ready to be contented with what life had given her; she had done her best to love him. It was true she had found him unsatisfying, cold, lacking in ardour. Her desires had been aroused, and she was constantly aware of their remaining unsatisfied.

Here at Perugia she saw him through the eyes of her brother and father; and it was a different man she saw.

“So,” he cried, “I am to go. I am to leave you here.”

“Is that so, Giovanni?” she asked languidly, making sure that he should not be aware of the faint pleasure which she was feeling.

“You know it!” he stormed. “It may well be that you have asked to have me removed.”

“I? Giovanni! But you are my husband.”

He came to the bed and took her roughly by the arm. “Forget it not,” he said.

“How could I forget such a thing?”

“You might well do so now that you are with your family.”

“No, Giovanni. We all talk of you constantly.”

“Talk of how you can rid yourselves of me, eh?”

“Why should we wish to?”

That made him laugh.

“What fine bracelets you are wearing! Whence came they? Do not tell me—I’ll guess: A present from the Holy Father. What fine presents for a father to give his daughter! He lavished nothing better on Madonna Giulia at the height of his passion for her. And your brother, he is equally attentive. He rivals his father, one might say.”

She lowered her eyes; she let her long slender fingers play with the jeweled ornaments on her wrists.

She remembered her father’s putting them there; the solemn kisses, the words of love.

“They do not want me here,” shouted Giovanni. “I am an encumbrance. I am a nuisance. Am I not your husband?”

“I pray you, Giovanni, do not make such scenes,” she said. “My brother might hear you.”

She looked at him then, and saw the lights of fear come into his eyes. The mention of Cesare’s name did that to many people, she knew.

His clenched fists had dropped to his sides. He took one look at the beautiful and seductive girl on the bed; then he turned away.

She was the decoy. He must be careful. He was like a careless fly who had flown into the Borgia web. The safest thing he could do was to escape while he had time. At the moment he was a mild irritation to them. Who knew what he might become?

He thought of her gentleness and of the first weeks in Pesaro when she had truly become his wife. She was young and seemingly innocent; she was also very beautiful, very responsive; indeed, perhaps too responsive; with his natural fear he had been a little afraid of something which had warned him of pent-up passion within that exquisitely formed yet frail body.

He wanted to say to her: Come away with me. Come secretly. Do not let them know, because they will never allow you to escape them.

But if she came with him, what would happen to the pair of them? They would never be allowed to escape. He understood that. He realized now why they would not let her go.

The knowledge came to him when he had seen Baglioni and his mistress at their banquet. The Pope had blessed them both, Baglioni and his mistress, and the Pope had known about them.

Giovanni Sforza hesitated. Take her with you, urged a voice within him; she is your wife. As yet she is undefiled; she is gentle and there is kindness in her. They have not yet made her one of them … but they will. And she is your wife … yours to mold, yours to keep forever.

But he was a meek man. He had watched the look in her father’s eyes as they had rested on her; he had seen the fierce possessiveness in those of her brother.

But Giovanni dared not, for he was a frightened man.

“I am to go,” he cried out in sudden anger. “And you will stay. They are saying in Rome that there is ample shelter for you beneath the apostolic robe!”

She seemed to have forgotten he was there.

She was thinking of herself dancing with Cesare, and of Baglioni, sitting at the table caressing his beautiful sister.

Cesare had been right when he had said she had grown up. There were many things which she was now beginning to understand.

Lucrezia’s slaves were combing her long hair. Freshly washed, it gleamed golden as it fell over her shoulders. She was growing more beautiful. Her face still wore the innocent look which was perhaps largely due to her receding chin and wide eyes; but in those eyes there was now an expectancy.

She was back in Rome after a brief visit to Pesaro, and her husband Giovanni was with her again, but soon he would be going away. He must return to his condotta. She was glad he was going. She was weary of Giovanni and his continual insinuations. At the same time she was conscious of her father’s growing dislike of her husband, and of Cesare’s firm hatred.

Cesare was the most important person in her life, yet still she retained her fear of him—that exquisite terror which he aroused in her and which she was beginning to understand.

Her life with Giovanni had taught her what she could expect from men, and it might have been that, because she now knew herself to be capable of passion even as were her father and brothers, she was eagerly waiting for what the future would bring her. From Giovanni she expected nothing; yet, because he was a coward, and because he was continually worried by his lack of dignity and the lack of respect paid to him, she was sorry for him; and she would be glad when he had left, because not only was she sorry for him, she was afraid for him.

Her women had fixed the jeweled net over her hair and she was ready for the banquet.

This was to be in honor of the conqueror of Fornovo, and her father had insisted that Gonzaga should be entertained at the Palace of Santa Maria in Portico, that all Rome might know in what esteem he held his beautiful daughter.

So she was indeed growing up. This night would be gathered in her house all the most notable people in Rome, and she was to be their hostess.

Giovanni Sforza would be angry, for it would be clearly shown that he was of little importance. He would be in the background and no one would take any notice of him; and when Gonzaga rode away, Giovanni would ride with him and there would be a brief respite from his company once more.

She was very lovely as she went to greet her guests, her tiny Negress holding the train of her dress which was of rich brocade and stiff with jewels. She had the gift of looking both younger and older than her sixteen years—at one moment an innocent child, at another a woman.

There assembled were her father, brother and members of the Papal Court, and among them the retinue of Francesco Gonzaga, the Marquis of Mantua.

The Marquis himself stood before her, a man of striking appearance and personality. He was very tall, thin and very dark; and his body, though graceful in the extreme, suggested an immense strength and virility. His dark eyes were brilliant, deep set, and their hooded lids gave them the appearance of being constantly half-closed; his lips were full and sensuous; he was clearly a man who had enjoyed many adventures—both in love and war.

He bowed graciously before the daughter of the Pope.

“I have heard much of your charms, Madonna,” he said in a voice which held a note of tenderness; “it gives me the greatest pleasure to kiss your hand.”

“We have heard much of you here,” murmured Lucrezia. “The story of your valor has traveled before you.”

He sat beside her and told her of the battle, of how he reproached himself because the French King had escaped.

“He left behind him many prisoners,” said Lucrezia, “so we have heard here, with many of the treasures which he had taken from the people of Italy.”

It was true, agreed Gonzaga, and he went on to explain more details of the campaign, amazed at himself for talking thus to a beautiful girl. But this was merely a child. She was sixteen years old, but to him she seemed much younger.

As for Lucrezia, she wished this attractive man would talk of himself, which she knew would interest her far more than details of his battles.

They danced, and she felt a tingle of excitement run through her as their hands touched. She thought: If Giovanni Sforza had been such a man, how differently I could have felt toward him.

She lifted her eyes and smiled at him, but he still saw her as a child.

The Pope and Cesare watched them as they danced.

“A handsome pair,” said the Pope.

Cesare looked uneasy. “Gonzaga is notorious for his attractiveness to women. He should not think that Lucrezia is for his taking before he passes on to the next conquest.”

“Rest assured he does not,” murmured Alexander. “He sees her as a pretty child.”

There was another matter which Alexander would have to broach soon to Cesare, and he wished to choose the right moment for doing so. Giovanni Borgia would receive his father’s letter very soon, and he had no doubt that the young Duke of Gandia would lose little time in returning to Rome.

And when he came, Alexander was going to put him in charge of his armies, which would infuriate Cesare.

They are my sons, pondered Alexander; is it not for me to command them?

Perhaps. But, as he looked at the glowering face beside him, he was uneasy. That dark and brooding side of Cesare’s nature had become more pronounced of late. Cesare had had great devotion showered upon him; he had enjoyed many privileges. When he was at the universities the wealth and power of his father had enabled him to assemble a little court of his own, a court of which he was the despotic ruler. There were disquieting rumors regarding Cesare’s powers and the methods he employed for ridding himself of his enemies.

Alexander would not believe that he, the all-powerful Pope, who had recently triumphed over his enemies, was afraid of his own son.

Yet now he hesitated to tell him that there was little doubt that his brother would soon be in Rome.

Instead he spoke of Goffredo, that younger son, whom he had also recalled.

“It is time,” he said, “that Goffredo and Sanchia were with us. The rumors concerning that woman grow more and more interesting.”

That made Cesare laugh; and there was nothing Alexander liked so much as to enjoy a little light-hearted gossip with the members of his family. It seemed very amusing to them both to contemplate little Goffredo with this wife of his, who was notorious for her amours.

“Such a woman,” said Cesare lightly, “will be an interesting addition to Your Beatitude’s household.”

Lucrezia stood with her father and Cesare on the balcony, watching the departure of Francesco Gonzaga. He rode at the head of that procession, the man who had stirred some feeling of regret within her because Giovanni Sforza was not such a man. Now Francesco was making his way to Naples and, as he passed through Italy, everywhere he would be honored as the man who, with the Holy Father, had done more than any to drive the invader from the land.

He had the appearance of a conqueror. The crowds shouted their acclaim; they strewed flowers in his path and the eyes of the women were for him alone in the vast procession.

Graciously he acknowledged the acclaim, his dark eyes lighting as they fell on some girl or woman outstanding for her beauty. A smile of admiration for the beauty, regret that he was but passing by, would touch his face momentarily changing its expression.

He turned and smiled his last farewell to the group on the balcony, and his eyes rested briefly on the daughter of the Pope, for she was such a pretty child with her glistening golden hair, but if the thought occurred to him that in a few years’ time she would be worthy of a closer acquaintance, it was quickly forgotten. There was one other who rode in the procession and who turned to take a last look at the assembly on the balcony: this was Giovanni Sforza. He felt angry as his eyes rested on the golden-haired girl. There she stood between father and brother, and it seemed to Giovanni that she was their captive. They would take her from him; they would make her one of them, and very soon it would be impossible to recognize the docile girl who had been his wife during those months at Pesaro. He felt regretful for those months, for he knew that he would never again live in such harmony with his gentle Lucrezia.

Already she was changing. She was a young girl still, but she was a Borgia, and they had determined to stamp her with the mark of the Borgia. In a few years’ time—perhaps less—she would be as they were … that charming innocence lost, her sensuality enlarged so that she, too, would be ready to appease it at no matter what cost; they would tarnish that tenderness in her; they would supplant it with indifference.

He longed to turn back, to storm into the palace, to force her to leave them and come with him back to Pesaro where they would live away from the conflict of politics and the shadow of her scheming and unscrupulous family.

But who was he to dream such dreams? He was a small man; he was a coward who had always been afraid of someone or something, always trying to shake off the memory of humiliation.

No. It was too late. They had taken her from him and already she was estranged; already he had lost her.

Mists of anger danced before his eyes.

Francesco had turned to him.

“It grieves you,” he said, “to leave the Lady Lucrezia.”

Sforza laughed bitterly. “It does not grieve her,” he said. “She is happy enough to settle under the apostolic mantle.”

Francesco was looking at him oddly. Sforza, remembering past slights, could not stop himself from muttering savagely: “His Holiness is eager to be rid of me. He wishes to have the complete care of his daughter … he wishes to be husband as well as father.”

There was silence. Francesco was looking ahead of him; the cavalcade rode on.

On the balcony the Pope was looking fondly at his daughter.

“So Gonzaga rides away,” he said. “Now, my dearest, you must make preparations to greet your brother Goffredo and your sister-in-law Sanchia. It will not be long now before they are with us.”