Madonna of the Seven Hills (29 page)

“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.