Madonna of the Seven Hills (27 page)

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.