How delighted Vannozza was to be back in Rome! It seemed to her during those months which followed the birth of Lucrezia that she was the happiest of women. Roderigo visited her nurseries more frequently than ever; there was an additional attraction in the golden-haired little girl.
She was a charming baby—very sweet-tempered—and would lie contentedly in her crib giving her beautiful smile to any who asked for it.
The little boys were interested in her. They would stand one on either side of the crib and try to make her laugh. They quarrelled about her. Cesare and Giovanni would always seize on any difference between them and make a quarrel about it.
Vannozza laughed with her women, listening to their bickering: “She’s my sister.” “No, she’s my sister.” It had been explained to them that she was the sister of both of them.
Cesare had answered, his eyes flashing: “But she is more mine than Giovanni’s. She loves me—Cesare—better than Giovanni.”
That, the nursemaid told him, will be for Lucrezia herself to decide.
Giovanni watched his brother with smoldering eyes; he knew why Cesare wanted Lucrezia to love him best. Cesare was aware that when Uncle Roderigo called it was always Giovanni who had the bigger share of sweetmeats; it was always Giovanni who was lifted up in those strong arms and kissed and caressed before the magnificent Uncle Roderigo turned to Cesare.
Therefore Cesare was determined that everyone else should love him best. His mother did. The nurserymaids said they did; but that might have been because, if they did not, he would have his revenge in some way, and they knew that it was more unwise to offend Cesare than Giovanni.
Lucrezia, as soon as she was able to show a preference, should show it for him. He was determined on that. That was why he hung about her crib even more than Giovanni did, putting out his hand to let those little fingers curl about his thumb.
“Lucrezia,” he would whisper. “This is Cesare, your brother. You love him best … best of all.” She would look at him with those wide blue eyes, and he would command: “Laugh, Lucrezia. Laugh like this.”
The women would crowd round the crib to watch, for strangely enough Lucrezia invariably obeyed Cesare; and when Giovanni tried to make her laugh for him, Cesare would be behind his brother pulling such demoniacal faces that Lucrezia cried instead.
“It’s that demon, Cesare,” said the women to one another, for although he was but five years old they dared not say it to Cesare.
One day, six months after Lucrezia’s birth, Vannozza was tending her vines and flowers in her garden. She had her gardeners but this was a labor of love. Her plants were beautiful and it delighted her to look after them herself for her garden and her house were almost as dear to her as her family. Who would not be proud of such a house with its façade, facing the piazza, and the light room with the big window, so different from most of the gloomy rooms in other Roman houses. She had a water cistern too, which was a rare thing.
Her maid—not the one whom Roderigo had admired; she had long since left Vannozza’s service—came to tell her that the Cardinal had called, and with him was another gentleman; but even as the girl spoke Roderigo stepped into the garden, and he was alone.
“My lord,” cried Vannozza, “that you should find me thus.…”
Roderigo’s smile was disarming. “But you look charming among your plants,” he told her.
“Will you not come into the house? I hear you have brought a guest. The women should have attended to you better.”
“But it was my wish to speak to you alone … out here while you worked among your flowers.”
She was startled. She knew that he had something important to say, and she wondered whether he preferred to say it out of doors because even in well-ordered houses such as hers servants had a habit of listening to what they should not.
A cold fear numbed her mind as she wondered if he had come to tell her that this was the end of their liaison. She was acutely conscious of her thirty-eight years. She guarded her beauty well, but even so, a woman of thirty-eight who had borne several children could not compete with young girls; and there could scarcely be a young girl who, if she could resist the charm of the Cardinal, would be able to turn away from all that such an influential man could bring a mistress.
“My lord,” she said faintly, “you have news.”
The Cardinal lifted his serene face to the sky and smiled his most beautiful smile.
“My dear Vannozza,” he said, “as you know, I hold you in the deepest regard.” Vannozza caught her breath in horror. It sounded like the beginning of dismissal. “You live here in this house with our three children. It is a happy little home, but there is something missing; these children have no father.”
Vannozza wanted to cast herself at his feet, to implore him not to remove his benevolent presence from their lives. They might as well be dead if he did. As well try to live without the sun. But she knew how he disliked unpleasant scenes; and she said calmly: “My children have the best father in the world. I would rather they had never been born than that they should have had another.”
“You say delightful things … delightfully,” said Roderigo. “These are my children and dearly I love them. Never shall I forget the great service you have done me in giving them to me, my dearest love.”
“My lord.…” The tears had come to her eyes and she dashed them away, but Roderigo was looking at the sky, so determined was he not to see them.
“But it is not good that you should live in this house—a beautiful and still young woman, with your children about you, and only the uncle of those children to visit you.”
“My lord, if I have offended you in some way I pray you tell me quickly where I have been at fault.”
“You have committed no fault, my dear Vannozza. It is but to make life easier for you that I have made these plans. I want none to point at you and whisper: ‘Ah, there goes Vannozza Catanei, the woman who has children and no husband.’ That is why I have found a husband for you.”
“A husband! But, my lord …”
Roderigo silenced her with an authoritative smile. “You have a young baby in this house, Vannozza; she is six months old. Therefore you must have a husband.”
This was the end. She knew it. He would not have provided her with a husband if he had not tired of her.
He read her thoughts. But it was not entirely true that he was weary of her; he would always have some affection for her and would continue to visit her house, but that would be mainly to see his children; there were younger women with whom he wished to spend his leisure. There was some truth in what he was telling her; he did think it wise that she should be known as a married woman, for he could not have it said that his little ones were the children of a courtesan.
He said quickly: “Your husband’s duties will be to live in this house, to appear with you in public. They will end there, Vannozza.”
“Your lordship means?”
“Do you think that I could mean anything else? I am a jealous lover, Vannozza. Have you not yet learned that?”
“I know you to be jealous when you are a lover, my lord.”
He laid his hand on her shoulder. “Have no fear, Vannozza. You and I have been together too long to part now. It is solely for the sake of our children that I take this step. And I have chosen a quiet man to be your husband. He is a good man, a man of great respectability, and he is prepared to be the only sort of husband I could content myself with giving you.”
She took his hand and kissed it.
“And your Eminence will come and visit us now and then?”
“As ever, my dear. As ever. Now come and meet Giorgio di Croce. You will see that he is a mild-tempered man; you will have no difficulty with such a one, I do assure you.”
She followed him into the house, wondering what inducement had been offered to this man that he had agreed to marry her. It was not difficult to guess. There would be scarcely a man in Rome who would refuse to marry a woman whom the influential Cardinal had selected for him.
Vannozza was uneasy. She did not care to be bartered thus, as though she were a slave. She would certainly keep Giorgio di Croce in his place.
In her room which overlooked the piazza he was waiting. He rose as they entered and the Cardinal made the introductions.
The mild-tempered man took her hands and kissed them; she studied him and saw that his pale eyes gleamed as he took in her voluptuous charm.
Did the Cardinal notice? If so, he gave no sign.
From the loggia of her mother’s house Lucrezia looked out on the piazza and watched with quiet pleasure the people who passed. The city of the seven hills outside her mother’s house fascinated her, and it was her favorite pleasure to slip out to the loggia and watch people passing over the St. Angelo Bridge. There were Cardinals on white mules whose silver bridles gleamed in the sunshine; there were masked ladies and gentlemen; there were litters, curtained so that it was impossible to see the occupants.
Lucrezia’s wide wondering eyes would peer through gaps in the masonry as her fat little fingers curled about the pillars.
She was two years old but life with her brothers had made her appear to be more. The women of the nursery loved her dearly for, although she was like her brothers in appearance, she was quite unlike them in character. Lucrezia’s was a sunny nature; when she was scolded for a fault, she would listen gravely and bear no malice against the scolder. It was small wonder that in that nursery, made turbulent by the two boys, Lucrezia was regarded as a blessing.
She was very pretty, and the women never tired of combing or adorning that long hair of the yellow-gold color which was so rarely seen in Rome. Lucrezia was already, at two—like her brothers she was precocious—aware of her charm, but she accepted this in quiet contentment as she accepted most things.
Today there was a hush over the house, because something important was happening, and Lucrezia was aware of the whispers of serving men and maids, and of the presence of strange women in the house. It concerned her mother, she knew, because she had not been allowed to see her for a whole day. Lucrezia smiled placidly as she looked on the piazza. She would know in time, so she would wait until then.
Her brother Giovanni came and stood beside her. He was six years old, a beautiful boy with auburn hair like his mother’s.
Lucrezia smiled at him and held out her hand; her brothers were always affectionate toward her and she was already aware that each of them was doing his best to be her favorite. She was coquette enough already to enjoy the rivalry for her affections.
“For what do you watch, Lucrezia?” asked Giovanni.
“For the people,” she answered. “See the fat lady with the mask!”
They laughed together because the fat lady waddled, said Giovanni, like a duck.
“Our uncle will soon be here,” said Giovanni. “You are watching for him, Lucrezia.”
Lucrezia nodded, smiling. It was true that she always watched for Uncle Roderigo. His visits were the highlights of her life. To be swung in those strong arms, to be held above that laughing face, to smell the faint perfume which clung to his clothes and watch the twinkling jewels on his white hands and to know that he loved her—that was wonderful. Even more wonderful than being loved so much by her two brothers.
“He will come today, Lucrezia,” said Giovanni. “He surely will. He is waiting for a message from our mother.”
Lucrezia listened, alert; she could not always understand her brothers; they seemed to forget that she was only two years old, and that Giovanni who was six and Cesare who was seven seemed like adults, grand, large and important.
“Do you know why, Lucrezia?” said Giovanni.
When she shook her head, Giovanni laughed, hugging the secret, longing to tell yet reluctant to do so because the anticipation of telling so pleased him. He stopped smiling at her suddenly and Lucrezia knew why. Cesare was standing behind them.
Lucrezia turned to smile at him, but Cesare was glaring at Giovanni.
“It is not for you to tell,” said Cesare.
“It is as much for me as for you,” retorted Giovanni.
“I am the elder. I shall tell,” declared Cesare. “Lucrezia, you are not to listen to him.”
Lucrezia shook her head and smiled. No, she would not listen to Giovanni.
“I shall tell if I want to,” shouted Giovanni. “I have as much right to tell as you. More … because I thought to tell first.”
Cesare had his brother by the hair and was shaking him. Giovanni kicked out at Cesare. Cesare kicked back, Giovanni yelled and the two boys were rolling on the floor.
Lucrezia remained placid, for such fights were commonplace enough in the nursery, and she watched them, content that they should be fighting over her; she was nearly always the cause of these fights.
Giovanni was yelping with pain, while Cesare shrieked with rage. The maid-servants would not come near them while they fought thus. They were afraid of those two boys.
Giovanni who was being held down to the floor by Cesare, shouted: “Lucrezia … our mother is …”
But he could say no more because Cesare had his hand over his brother’s mouth. His eyes looked black with rage and his face was scarlet. “I shall tell. It is my place to tell. Our mother is having a baby, Lucrezia.”
Lucrezia stared, her eyes wide, her soft babyish mouth open in astonishment. Cesare, watching her amazement, was placated. She was looking at him as though he were responsible for this strange thing. She made him feel powerful, as she had ever since she had been a baby and he had hung over her crib and watched her little fingers curl about his thumb.
He released Giovanni and both boys got to their feet. The fight was over; it was one of many which took place every day in the nursery. Now they were ready to talk to their little sister about the new baby, to strut before her and boast of all that they knew concerning the great events which went on outside their nursery.
Vannozza lay waiting for the Cardinal to visit her. A boy this time, but she was uneasy.
She had good reason to be.
The Cardinal had continued his visits during the two years of her marriage, but they had been less frequent and she had heard a great deal of gossip about the charming young women in whom he was interested.
Giorgio was a good man, a meek man, as the Cardinal had declared him to be; but even the meekest men are yet men, and Vannozza was possessed of voluptuous and irresistible charm. There had been long summer evenings—the cool of the evening was the best part of the day—when they supped in her lovely vineyard in the Suburra, when they had talked and grown drowsy and afterward gone into the house, each feeling stimulated by the presence of the other.
After all, they were married, and Roderigo’s visits were so infrequent.
It was to be expected, of course, even though the rule had been laid down that Giorgio was merely to share the public rooms of her house.
Could Roderigo blame her? She did not think he would. But if there was a question of the child being his, he might feel less inclined to do for it what he planned to do for the others.
When a woman held a child in her arms, a child of a few hours, how could she help it if for a short while that child seemed more precious to her than anything else on Earth? Cesare would always hold first place in her affections; but at this time as she lay exhausted in her bed the little newcomer—her Goffredo—being the most helpless of her brood, must, she decided, have the same opportunities as his brothers.
He looked exactly as the others had; indeed it might be little Lucrezia who lay in her arms now, a baby a few hours old; and there was no doubt who her father was. Goffredo might be Roderigo’s son. With such a lover and a husband living under her own roof, even Vannozza could not be sure. But she must do all in her power to make the Cardinal sure he was the child’s father.
He was coming to her bedside now. Her women stepped back in awed reverence as he approached.
“Vannozza, my dear!” His voice sounded as tender as ever, but he rarely showed anger, and she could not tell what his feelings were toward the child.
“A boy this time, my lord. He is very like Lucrezia … and I fancy I see Your Eminence in that child every day.”
A plump white hand, sparkling with gems, touched the baby’s cheek. It was a tender, paternal gesture, and Vannozza’s spirits rose.
She picked up the child and held him out to the Cardinal who took him from her; she saw his face soften in a look of pride and joy. It was small wonder, she thought then, that many loved Roderigo; his love of women and children made them eager to please and serve him.
He walked up and down with the child, and in his eyes was a faraway look as though he were seeing into the future. Surely that meant that he was making plans for the new-born boy. He did not suspect. He must have compared himself with Giorgio and asked himself how any woman could consider the little apostolic clerk, when she must compare him with the charming and mighty Cardinal.
He put the baby back into her arms and stood for a while smiling benignly down at her.
Then he said slyly, “Giorgio? He is pleased?”
There was a period in Lucrezia’s life which she would remember until the day of her death. She was only four years old, yet so vivid was the memory that it was imprinted forever on her mind. For one thing it was the beginning of change.
Before that time she had lived the nursery life, secure in the love of her mother, looking forward to the visits of Uncle Roderigo, delighting in the battle of her brothers for her affection. It had been a pleasant little world in which Lucrezia lived. Each day she would take her stand on the loggia and watch the colorful world go by, but all that happened beyond her mother’s house seemed to her nothing more than pictures for her idle pleasure; there was an unreality about all that happened on the other side of the loggia and Lucrezia was safe in her cozy world of love and admiration.
She knew that she was pretty and that no one could fail to notice this because of her yellow hair and her eyes which were light blue-gray in color; her eyelashes and brows were dark and inherited from her Spanish ancestors, it was said; and it was this combination which, partly because it was so unusual, was so attractive. She had the arresting looks of one who was only part Italian, being also part Spanish. Her brothers also possessed this charm.
The serving-maids could not help embracing her, patting her cheeks or stroking her lovely hair. “Dearest little Madonna,” they would murmur, and they would whisper together about those enchanting occhi bianchi which were going to make a seductress of their little Madonna.
She was happy in their affection; she would snuggle up to them, giving love for love; and she looked forward to a career as a seductress with the utmost pleasure.
Little Lucrezia up to that time believed that the world had been made for her pleasure—her brothers had the same feeling in regard to themselves—but because Lucrezia was by nature serene, ready to be contented, and could only be pleased herself when she pleased others, her character was quite different from those of her brothers. Cesare’s and Giovanni’s young lives were darkened by their jealousy of each other; Lucrezia knew no such jealousy. She was the Queen of the nursery, certain of the love of all.
And so, up to her fourth birthday the little girl remained shut in her world of contentment which wrapped itself about her like a cozy cocoon.
But with the fourth birthday came the first indication that life was less simple than she had believed it to be, and that it did not go on forever in the same pleasant pattern.
At first she noticed the excitement in the streets. There was much coming and going across the bridge. Each day great Cardinals, their retinues with them, came riding into Rome on their mules. People stood about in little groups; some talked quietly, some gesticulated angrily.
All day she had waited for a visit from Uncle Roderigo, but he did not come.
When Cesare came into the nursery she ran to him and took his hands, but even Cesare had changed; he did not seem as interested in her as before. He went to the loggia and patiently she stood beside him, like a little page, humble, waiting on his pleasure as he liked her to; yet he said nothing, but stood still, watching the crowds in the streets.
“Uncle Roderigo has not come to us,” she said wistfully.
Cesare shook his head. “He will not come, little sister. Not today.”
“Is he sick?”
Cesare smiled slowly. His hands were clenched, she saw, and his face grew taut as it did so often when he was angry or determined about something.
She stood on the step which enabled her to be as high as his shoulder, and put her face close to his that she might study his expression.
“Cesare,” she said, “you are angry with Uncle Roderigo?”
Cesare caught her neck in his strong hands; it hurt a little, this trick of his, but she liked it because she knew that it meant: See how strong I am. See how I could hurt you, little Lucrezia, if I wished to; but I do not wish to, because you are my little sister and I love you because you love me … better than anyone in the world … better than our mother, better than Uncle Roderigo, better, certainly better, than Giovanni.
And when she squealed and showed by her face that he was hurting—only a little—that meant: Yes, Cesare, my brother. You I love better than any in the world. And he understood and his fingers became gentle.
“One is not angry with Uncle Roderigo,” Cesare told her. “That would be foolish, and I am no fool.”
“No, Cesare, you are no fool. But are you angry with someone?”
He shook his head. “No. I rejoice, little sister.”
“Tell me why.”
“You are but a baby. What could you know of what goes on in Rome?”
“Does Giovanni know?” Lucrezia, at four, was capable of sly diplomacy. The lovely light eyes were downcast; she did not want to see Cesare’s anger; like Roderigo she turned from what was unpleasant.
The trick was successful. “I will tell you,” said Cesare. Of course he would tell. He would not allow Giovanni to give her something which he had denied her. “The Pope, who you know is Sixtus IV, is dying. That is why they are excited down there; that is why Uncle Roderigo does not come to see us. He has much to do. When the Pope dies there will be a Conclave and then, little sister, the Cardinals will choose a new Pope.”
“Uncle Roderigo is choosing; that is why he cannot come to see us,” she said.
Cesare stood smiling at her. He felt important, all-wise; no one made him feel so wise or important as his little sister; that was why he loved her so dearly.
“I wish he could choose quickly and come to see us,” added Lucrezia. “I will ask the saints to make a new Pope quickly … so that he can come to us.”
“No, little Lucrezia. Do not ask such a thing. Ask this instead. Ask that the new Pope shall be our Uncle Roderigo.”
Cesare laughed, and she laughed with him. There was so much she did not understand; but in spite of the threatening strangeness, in spite of the gathering crowd below and the absence of Uncle Roderigo, it was good to stand on the loggia, clinging to Cesare’s doublet, watching the excitement in the square.
Roderigo was not elected.
The excitement, watched by the children, persisted throughout the city. The scene had changed. Lucrezia heard the sounds of battle in the streets below, and Vannozza, in terror, had barricades put about the house. Even Cesare did not know exactly what it was all about, although he and Giovanni, strutting around the nursery, would not admit this. Uncle Roderigo only visited the house briefly to assure himself that the children were as safe as he could make them. His visits now were merely to see the children; since the birth of little Goffredo he had ceased to regard Vannozza as his mistress, and now there was another baby, Ottaviano, whom Vannozza made no pretence of passing off as his. As for little Goffredo, Roderigo was enchanted by the child, who was turning out to be in every way as beautiful as his elder brothers and sister. Roderigo, having need of sons and being susceptible to beautiful children, was more often than not inclined to give Goffredo the benefit of the doubt, and the attention he bestowed on the others was then shared by the little boy. Poor little Ottaviano was an outsider, ignored by Roderigo, though dearly loved by Vannozza and Giorgio.
But during those weeks there was little time even to regret Roderigo’s absence; the children could only look out on the piazza with amazement at the changing scene.
Innocent VIII had become Pope and he had allowed Cardinal della Rovere, who was the nephew of the deceased Sixtus, to persuade him to make war against Naples. The powerful Orsinis who, with the Colonnas, dominated Rome, were friends and allies of the Neopolitans, and this gave them an excuse for rising against the city. They put Rome almost into a state of siege and their old enemies, the Colonnas, lost no time in going into battle against them. Therefore, the streets of Rome, during that period which followed the death of Sixtus and the election of Innocent were the scenes of many a fierce battle.
The children—Cesare, Giovanni and Lucrezia—watching behind the barricades saw strange sights in the city of Rome. They saw the fierce Orsinis coming out in force from Monte Giordano to attack the equally fierce and bloodthirsty Colonnas. They watched men cut each other to pieces in the piazza immediately before their eyes; they saw the way of lewd soldiery with the girls and women; they smelled the hideous smells of war, of burning buildings, of blood and sweat; they heard the cries of victims and the triumphant shouts of raiders.
Death was commonplace; torture equally so.
Little Lucrezia, four years old, looked on at these sights at first with wonder and then almost with indifference. Cesare and Giovanni watched with her and she took her cue from them.
Torture, rape, murder—they were all part of the world outside their nursery. At four years of age children accept without surprise that which is daily paraded before their eyes and Lucrezia was to remember this time of her life not as one of horror, but of change.
The fighting died down; life returned to normal; and two years passed before there was another and this time a more important change for Lucrezia, a change which marked the beginning of the end of childhood. She was nearly six, a precocious six. Cesare was eleven and Giovanni ten; she had been so much their companion that she had learned more than most children know at six years of age. She was as serene as ever, perhaps a little more eager now to provoke that rivalry between her brothers than she had been, understanding more than ever what power it gave her, and that while each sought to be her favorite, she could be the most powerful person in the nursery.
Certainly she was serene, for she was wise; she had come to her power through her brothers’ rivalry and all she had to do was award the prize—her affection.
She remained the darling of the nursery. The maids could be sure that there would be no tantrums from Lucrezia; she was kind to little Goffredo whom his brothers scarcely deigned to notice on account of his youth; and she was equally kind to little Ottaviano whom her brothers would not notice at all. They knew something about Ottaviano which made them despise him, but Lucrezia was sorry for him, so she was particularly kind.
Lucrezia enjoyed her life; it was amusing to play one brother off against the other, to worm their secrets from them, to use this rivalry. She liked to walk in the gardens, her arms about Giovanni, being particularly loving when she knew Cesare could see her from the house. It made her feel warm and cozy to be loved so much by two such wonderful brothers.
When Uncle Roderigo came she liked to climb over him looking close into his face, perhaps putting out a delicate finger to touch the nose which seemed gigantic, to caress the heavy jowls, to bury her face in his scented garments and to tell him that the smell of him reminded her of her mother’s flower gardens.
Uncle Roderigo loved them all dearly, and came often with presents; he would have them stand round him while he sat on the ornamental chair which their mother kept for him, and he would look at them all in turn—his beloved children whom, he told them, he loved beyond all things on Earth; his eyes rested most fondly of all on Giovanni. Lucrezia was aware of this; and sometimes when she saw the dark look it brought to Cesare’s face she would run to Uncle Roderigo and throw herself at him in order to turn his attention from Giovanni to herself.
She was often successful, for when Uncle Roderigo’s long fingers caressed her yellow hair, when his lips touched her soft cheek, there would be a special tenderness which he could only give to her. He would hold her more tightly to him and kiss her more often.
“My enchanting little one,” he would murmur. “My little love.”
Then he ceased to watch Giovanni so devotedly and that pleased Cesare who did not mind Uncle Roderigo’s loving Lucrezia. It was only Giovanni who aroused his jealousy.
Then Vannozza might appear at the door holding little Goffredo by the hand, pushing him forward; and Goffredo would break from his mother and run shrieking with joy, shouting: “Uncle Roderigo, Goffredo is here.” He would be dressed in his blue tunic, which made him look as beautiful as a painted angel in one of the pictures which their mother cherished; and Uncle Roderigo would hesitate—or pretend to hesitate—for one second before he picked up the beautiful little boy. But only when Vannozza had gone would he smother him with kisses and take him on his knee and let him pull gifts from the pockets of his robes, while he called him “My little Goffredo.”
Ottaviano never came. Poor Ottaviano, the outsider; he was pale and delicate and he coughed a great deal. He was very like Giorgio, who was kind but who must be, so Cesare commanded, ignored by them all, since he had nothing to do with them.
But it was through Ottaviano and Giorgio, those two who were regarded as insignificant by the three children in the nursery, that change came into their lives.
They grew listless, both of them. The weather was sultry and it was said that there was pestilence in the air. Giorgio grew paler and thinner each day until he took to his bed and there was quiet throughout the house.
Vannozza wept bitterly, for she had come to love her meek husband, and when he died she was very sad. It was not long afterward that little Ottaviano, suffering in the same way as his father had, took to his bed and died. Thus in a few months the household had lost two of its members.
Lucrezia wept to see her mother unhappy. She missed little Ottaviano too; he had been one of her most faithful admirers.
Cesare found her crying and wanted to know why.
“But you know,” she said, her light eyes wide and wondering. “Our father is dead and our little brother with him. Our mother is sad and so am I.”
Cesare snapped his fingers angrily. “You should not weep for them,” he said. “They are nothing to us.”
Lucrezia shook her head and for once she would not agree with him. She had loved them both; she found it easy to love people. Giorgio had been so kind to her, Ottaviano had been her dear little brother, so she would insist on weeping even though Cesare forbade her.
But Cesare must not be crossed. She saw the dark angry look come into his eyes.
“Lucrezia, you shall not cry for them,” he insisted. “You shall not, I say. Dry your eyes. Look here is a kerchief. Dry them and smile. Smile!”
But it was not possible to smile with all her grief upon her. Lucrezia tried, but she remembered the kindness of Giorgio and how he had carried her on his shoulder and looked so pleased when people had admired her yellow hair; she remembered how little Ottaviano had a habit of creeping close to her and slipping his little hand in hers; she remembered how he used to lisp her name. She could not smile, because she could not forget that she would never see Giorgio and Ottaviano again.
Cesare seemed as though he were finding it difficult to breathe, which meant he was very angry. He took her by the neck, and this time there was more anger than tenderness in the gesture.
“It is time you knew the truth,” he said. “Have you not guessed who our father is?”
She had not thought of possessing a father until Giorgio came into the house, and then, as Vannozza called him husband, she had thought of him as father, but she knew better than to say that Giorgio was their father; so she was silent, hoping Cesare would relax his hold on her neck and let the tenderness return to his fingers.
Cesare had put his face close to hers; he whispered: “Roderigo, Cardinal Borgia, is not our uncle, foolish child; he is our father.”
“Uncle Roderigo?” she said slowly.
“Of a certainty, foolish one.” Now his grip was tender. He laid his lips on her cool cheek and gave her one of those long kisses which disturbed her. “Why should he come here so often, do you think? Why should he love us so? Because he is our father. It is time you knew. Now you will see that it is unworthy to cry for such as Giorgio and Ottaviano. Do you see that now, Lucrezia?”
His eyes were dark again—not with rage perhaps, but with pride because Uncle Roderigo was their father and he was a great Cardinal who, they must pray each day, each night, might one day be Pope and the most powerful man in Rome.
“Yes, Cesare,” she said, for she was afraid of Cesare when he looked like that.
But when she was alone she went into a corner and continued to weep for Giorgio and Ottaviano.
But even Cesare was to discover that the death of those whom he had considered insignificant could make a great difference to his life.
Roderigo, still solicitous for the welfare of his ex-mistress, decided that, since she had lost her husband, she must be provided with another; therefore he arranged a marriage for her with a certain Carlo Canale. This was a good match for Vannozza since Carlo was the chamberlain of Cardinal Francesco Gonzaga, and a man of some culture; he had encouraged the poet, Angelo Poliziano, in the writing of Orfeo, and had worked with distinction among the humanists of Mantua. Here was a man who could be useful to Roderigo; and Canale was wise enough to know that through Roderigo he might acquire the riches he had so far failed to accumulate.
Roderigo’s notary drew up the marriage contracts and Vannozza prepared to settle down with her new husband.
But as she had gained a husband she was to lose her three eldest children. She accepted this state of affairs philosophically for she knew that Roderigo could not allow their children to remain in her house beyond their childhood; the comparatively humble home of a Roman matron was not the right setting for those who had a brilliant destiny before them.
Thus came the greatest change of all into Lucrezia’s life.
Giovanni was to go to Spain, where he would join his eldest brother, Pedro Luis, and where his father would arrange for honors to fall to him; and those honors should be as great as those which he had given to Pedro Luis. Cesare was to stay in Rome. Later he was to train for a Spanish Bishopric, and to do this he must study canon law at the universities of Perugia and Pisa. For the time being he was with Lucrezia but they were soon to leave their mother’s house for that of a kinswoman of their father’s; therein they would be brought up as fitted their father’s children.
It was a staggering blow to Lucrezia. All that had been home to her for six years would be home no longer. The blow was swift and sudden. The only one who rejoiced in that household on the Piazza Pizzo di Merlo was Giovanni, who strutted about the nursery, wielding an imaginary sword, bowing in mock reverence before Cesare whom he called my lord Bishop. Giovanni, intoxicated with excitement, talked continually of Spain.
Lucrezia watched Cesare, his arms folded across his breast, his face white with suppressed anger. Cesare did not rage, did not cry out that he would kill Giovanni; for once Cesare was beaten.
The first important change of their lives had been reached and they all had to accept the fact that however much they might boast in the nursery, they had no alternative but to obey orders.
Only once, when he was alone with Lucrezia, did Cesare cry out as he thumped his fist on his thighs so violently that Lucrezia was sure he was hurting himself: “Why should he go to Spain? Why should I have to go into the Church? I want to go to Spain. I want to be a Duke and a soldier. Do you think I am not more fitted to conquer and rule than he is? It is because our father loves him better than he loves me that Giovanni has cajoled him into this. I will not endure it. I will not.”
Then he took Lucrezia by the shoulders, and his blazing eyes frightened her.
“I swear to you, little sister, that I shall not rest until I am free … free of my father’s will … free of the will of any who seek to restrain me.”
Lucrezia could only murmur: “You will be free, Cesare. You will always do what you want.”
Then he laughed suddenly and gave her one of those fierce embraces which she knew so well.
She was anxious about Cesare, and that meant that she did not worry so much about her own future as she might otherwise have done.