The two brothers met at the Porta Portuense. Cesare, as tradition and his father insisted, set out at the head of that procession which was made up of the Cardinals and their splendid households, to greet the brother whom he hated more than anyone in the world.
They faced each other. Giovanni had changed a little since he had gone to Spain. He was more arrogant, more magnificent and the lines of cruelty about his mouth had deepened. Dissipation had marked his features, but he was very handsome still. His dress was more grand than anything Cesare had ever seen him wear before. His red velvet cape was decorated with pearls, and his waistcoat of the same material in a light shade of brown was ablaze with pearls and glistening jewels of all colors. Even his horse was made brilliant by golden ornaments and silver bells. Giovanni was a dazzling sight as he entered the city of Rome, and the citizens were astonished to behold him.
As they rode side by side to the Apostolic Palace, which was to be the Duke’s home, Giovanni could not help taking sly glances at his brother, letting him know that he was fully aware of the enmity which existed between them and that, now he was a great Duke with a son and another child shortly expected, now that he came home at their father’s request to command their father’s forces, he realized that Cesare’s envy was not likely to have abated in the smallest degree.
The Pope could not contain his joy at the sight of his best-loved son.
He embraced him and wept, while Cesare watched, standing apart, clenching his hands and grinding his teeth, saying to himself, Why should it be so? What has he that I lack?
Alexander looking toward Cesare guessed his feelings and, as he knew that Cesare must certainly feel still more angry when he understood in full the glory which was to be Giovanni’s, he stretched out his hand to Cesare and said tenderly: “My two sons! It is rarely nowadays that I know the pleasure of having you both with me at the same time.”
When Cesare ignored the hand, and strolled to the window, Alexander was uneasy. It was the first time Cesare had openly rebuffed him, and that it should have happened in the presence of a third party was doubly disturbing. He decided that the best thing he could do was to ignore the gesture.
Cesare said without turning his head: “There are crowds below. They wait, hoping to catch further glimpses of the splendid Duke of Gandia.”
Giovanni strode to the window; he turned to Cesare, smiling that insolent smile. “They shall not be disappointed,” he said, looking down at his bejeweled garments and back at Cesare. “A pity,” he went on, “that the comparatively somber garments of the Church are all you have to show them, brother.”
“Then you understand,” Cesare answered lightly, “that it is not the Duke whom they applaud, but the Duke’s jeweled doublet.”
Alexander had insinuated himself between them, putting an arm about each.
“You will be interested to meet Goffredo’s wife, my dear Giovanni,” he said.
Giovanni laughed. “I have heard of her. Her fame has traveled even to Spain. Some of my more prudish relatives speak her name in whispers.”
The Pope burst into laughter. “We are more tolerant in Rome, eh, Cesare?”
Giovanni looked at his brother. “I have heard,” he said, “that Sanchia of Aragon is a generous woman. So generous indeed that all she has to bestow cannot be given to one husband.”
“Our Cesare here, he is a fascinating fellow,” said Alexander placatingly.
“I doubt it not,” laughed Giovanni.
Determination was in his eyes. Cesare was looking at him challengingly, and whenever a challenge had been issued by one brother to the other it had always been taken up.
Giovanni Sforza rode toward Pesaro.
How thankful he was to be home. How tired he was of the conflicts raging about him. In Naples he was treated as an alien, which he was; he was suspected of spying for the Milanese, which he had. The last year had brought nothing to enhance his opinion of himself. He was more afraid, and of more people, than he had ever been in his life.
Only behind the hills of Pesaro could he be at peace. He indulged in a pleasant daydream as he rode homeward. It was that he might ride to Rome, take his wife and bring her back with him to Pesaro—defying the Pope and her brother Cesare. He heard himself saying: “She is my wife. Try to take her from me if you dare!”
But they were dreams. As if it were possible to say such things to the Pope and Cesare Borgia! The tolerance which the Pope would display toward one who he would believe had lost his senses, the sneers of Cesare toward one whom he knew to be a coward parading as a brave man—they were more than Giovanni Sforza could endure.
So he could only dream.
He rode slowly along by the Foglia River, in no hurry now that Pesaro was in sight. When he reached home he would find it dreary; life would not be the same as it had been during those months when he had lived there with Lucrezia.
Lucrezia! At first during those months before the marriage had been consummated, she had seemed but a shy bewildered child. But how different he had discovered her to be! He wanted to take her away, make her his completely and gradually purge her of all that she had inherited from her strange family.
He could see the castle—strong, seeming impregnable.
There, he thought, I could live with Lucrezia, happy, secure, all the days of our lives. We should have children and find peace in our stronghold between the mountains and the sea.
His retainers were running out to greet him.
“Our Lord has come home.” He felt grand and important, he the Lord of Pesaro, as he rode forward. Pesaro might have been a great dominion; these few people might have been a multitude.
He accepted the homage, dismounted and entered the palace.
It was a dazzling manifestation of his dream, for she stood there, the sun shining on her golden hair which fell loose about her shoulders, and lighting the few discreet jewels she wore—as became the lady of a minor castle.
“Lucrezia!” he cried.
She smiled that fascinating smile which still held a child-like quality.
“Giovanni,” she answered him, “I was weary of Rome. I came to Pesaro that I might be here to greet you on your return.”
He laid his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead, then her cheeks, before he lightly touched her lips with his.
He believed in that moment that the Giovanni Sforza whom he had seen in his dreams might have existence in reality.
But Giovanni Sforza could not believe in his happiness. He must torture himself—and Lucrezia.
He was continually discovering new ornaments in her jewel cases.
“And whence came this trinket?” he would ask.
“My father gave it to me,” would invariably be the answer. Or: “It is a gift from my brother.”
Then Giovanni would throw it back into the box, stalk from the room or regard her with glowering eyes.
“The behavior at the Papal Court is shocking the world!” he declared. “It is worse since the woman from Naples came.”
This made Lucrezia unhappy; she thought of Sanchia and Cesare together, of Goffredo’s delight that his wife should so please his brother, of Alexander’s amusement and her own jealousy.
We are indeed a strange family, she thought.
She would look across the sea, and there was a hope in her eyes, a hope that she might conform with the standards of goodness set up by such men as Savonarola, that she might live quietly with her own husband in their mountain stronghold, that she might curb this desire to be with her own disturbing family.
But although Giovanni had no help to offer her, and only gave her continual reproaches, she was determined to be patient; so she listened quietly to his angry outbursts and only mildly tried to assure him of her innocence. And there were occasions when Giovanni would throw himself at her feet and declare that she was good at heart and he was a brute to upbraid her continually. He could not explain to her that always he saw himself as a poor creature, despised by all, and that the conduct of her family and the rumors concerning them made him seem ever poorer, even more contemptible.
There were times when she thought, I can endure this no longer. Perhaps I will hide myself in a convent. There in the solitude of a cell I might begin to understand myself, to discover a way in which I can escape from all that I know I should.
Yet how could she endure life in a convent? When letters came from her father, her heart would race and her hands tremble as she seized on them. Reading what he had written made her feel as though he were with her, talking to her; and then she realized how happy she was when she was in the heart of her family, and that only then could she be completely content.
She must find a compensation for this overpowering love which she bore toward her family. Was a convent the answer?
Alexander was begging her to return. Her brother Giovanni, he pointed out, was in Rome, even more handsome, more charming than he had been when he went away. Each day he asked about his beloved sister and when she was coming home. Lucrezia must return at once.
She wrote that her husband wished her to remain in Pesaro, where he had certain duties.
The answer to that came promptly.
Her brother Giovanni was about to set out on a military campaign which was to be directed first against the Orsini, and which was calculated later to subdue all the barons who had proved themselves to be helpless against the invader. The rich lands and possessions of these barons would fall into the Pope’s hands. Lucrezia knew that this was the first step on that road along which Alexander had long planned to go.
Now, his dear son-in-law, Giovanni Sforza, could show his mettle and win great honors for himself. Let him collect his forces and join the Duke of Gandia. Lucrezia would not wish to stay on at Pesaro alone, so she must return to Rome where her family would prepare a great welcome for her.
When Giovanni Sforza read this letter he was furious.
“What am I?” he cried. “Nothing but a piece on a chequer-board to be moved this way and that. I will not join the Duke of Gandia. I have my duties here.”
So he stormed and raged before Lucrezia, yet he knew—and she knew also—that he went in fear of the Pope.
However, on this occasion he determined to try compromise. He gathered together his men but, instead of leaving with them, he wrote to the Pope and explained that his duties in his own dominion prevented his leaving at this time.
He and Lucrezia waited for the command to obey, the expressions of angry reproach.
There was a long silence; then from the Vatican came a soothing reply. His Holiness fully understood Giovanni Sforza’s reasons; he no longer insisted that he should join the Duke of Gandia. At the same time he would like to remind his son-in-law that it was long since he had seen him in Rome, and it would give him the utmost pleasure to embrace Giovanni and Lucrezia once more.
The letter made Lucrezia very happy. “I feared,” she told her husband, “that your refusal to join my brother would have angered my father. But how benevolent he is! He understands, you see.”
“The greater your father’s benevolence, the more I fear him,” growled Giovanni.
“You do not understand him. He loves us. He wishes to have us in Rome.”
“He wishes you to be in Rome. I do not know what he wishes for me.”
And Lucrezia looked at her husband and shivered imperceptibly. There were times when she felt there was no escape from the destiny which her family was preparing for her.
Cesare had rarely been so happy in the whole of his life as he was at this time.
His brother Giovanni was helping to prove all that he, Cesare, had been at such pains to make their father realize. How angry he had been at that ceremony when Giovanni had been invested with the standard, richly embroidered, and the sword, richly jeweled, of Captain General of the Church! How the fury had welled up within him to see his father’s eyes shining with pride as he beheld his favorite son!
“Fool!” Cesare had wanted to cry. “Do you not see that he will bring disgrace on your armies and the name of Borgia?”
And Cesare’s prophecies were coming true. That was what gave him this great pleasure. Now surely his father must see the folly of investing his son Giovanni with military honors which he could not uphold, and the crass stupidity of preventing the brave bold Cesare from taking over the command which, in a fond father’s folly, had been given to Giovanni.
Everything was in Giovanni’s favor. The wealth and might of the Pope was behind him. The great Captain Virginio Orsini was still a prisoner in Naples and could not take part in his family’s defense. To any with an ounce of military knowledge, so reasoned Cesare, the campaign should have been swift and victorious.
And at first it seemed as though it would be so, for, with Virginio a prisoner, the Orsinis appeared to have no heart for the fight, and one by one surrendered to Giovanni’s forces as they had to the French. Castle after castle threw open its gates, and in marched the conqueror without the shedding of one drop of blood.
In the Vatican the Pope rejoiced; even in Cesare’s presence, knowing how galling it was to his eldest son, he could not hide his pride.
That was why the new turn of events was so gratifying to Cesare.
The Orsini clan were not so easily overcome as the brash young Duke of Gandia and his doting father had believed. They had gathered in full force at the family castle of Bracciano under the leadership of the sister of Virginio. Bartolommea Orsini was a brave woman. She had been brought up in a military tradition and she was not going to submit without a fight. In this she was helped by her husband and other members of the family.
Giovanni Borgia was startled to come up against resistance. He had had no experience of war, and his methods of breaking the siege at Bracciano seemed to the experienced warriors on both sides, both childish and foolish. He had no wish to fight, for Giovanni was a soldier who had more affection for jeweled sword and white stick of office than for battle. He therefore sent messages to the defenders of the castle, first wheedling, then threatening, telling them that their wisest plan would be to surrender. It was uncomfortable, camping outside the castle; the weather was bad; and Giovanni’s gorgeous apparel unsuited to it. His most able captain, Guidobaldo of Montefeltro, the Duke of Urbino, was badly wounded and forced to retire, which meant that Giovanni had lost his best adviser.
Time passed and Giovanni remained outside the stronghold of Bracciano. He was tired of the war, and he had heard that the whole of Italy was laughing at the Commander of the Pope’s forces, and moreover he guessed how his brother was enjoying this turn of events.
The people of Rome whispered about the grand Captain: “How fares he now? Does he look quite so gorgeous as he did when he set out? The rain and wind will not be good for all that velvet and brocade.”
Alexander was filled with anxiety, and declared he would sell his tiara if necessary to bring the war to a satisfactory conclusion. He could not bear the company of his elder son Cesare, for Cesare did not attempt to hide his delight at the way things were going. This hatred of brother for brother, thought Alexander, was folly of the first order. Had Cesare and Giovanni not yet learned that strength was in unity?
Cesare was with him when the news came to him that Giovanni was still waiting outside the castle and that Urbino had been wounded.
He watched the red blood flood his father’s face and, as he stood there, exulting, Alexander swayed and would have fallen had not Cesare rushed forward to catch him.
Looking at his father, whose face was dark with rich purple blood, the whites of his eyes showing red, and the veins knotted at his temples, Cesare had a sudden terrible fear of a future in which there would be no Alexander to protect his family. Then did he realize how much they owed to this man—this man who hitherto had been renowned for his vitality, this man who surely must possess true genius.
“Father!” cried Cesare aghast. “Oh, my beloved father!”
The Pope opened his eyes and became aware of his son’s anxiety.
“Dear son,” he said. “Fear not. I am with you still.”
Once again that exceptional vitality showed itself. It was as though Alexander refused to accept the ailments of encroaching age.
“Father,” cried Cesare in anguish, “you are not ill? You cannot be ill.”
“Help me to my chair,” said Alexander. “There! That is better. It was a momentary faintness. I felt the blood pounding in my veins, and it seemed that my head would burst with it. It is passing. It was the shock of this news. I must control myself in future. There is no need to fret about that which has not yet happened.”
“You must take greater care, Father,” Cesare warned him.
“Oh my son, my son, do not look so distressed. And yet I feel happy to see that you care so much for me.”
Alexander closed his eyes and lay back in his chair smiling. The astute statesman, always wilfully blind where his family was concerned, allowed himself to believe that it was out of affection for his father that Cesare was alarmed, not because he was aware of the precarious position he, with the rest of his family, would be in if the Pope were no longer there to protect them.
Cesare then begged his father to call his physician, that he might be examined; and this Alexander at length promised he would do. But the Pope’s resilience was amazing and, a few hours after the fainting fit, he was making new plans for Giovanni’s success.
Alas, eventually even Alexander had to face the fact that Giovanni was no soldier, for this became undeniable when help came to the Orsini from the French, and they were able to attack the besiegers of the castle.
Faced with real battle Giovanni proved himself to be a hopeless leader, and the engagement went badly for the Papal forces; the only man among them who distinguished himself was the Duke of Urbino who, recovered from his wounds, was taken prisoner by the Orsini. As for Giovanni, he was wounded, but slightly, and realizing that he was in a somewhat ridiculous position, from which above all things he longed to extricate himself, he declared that being wounded he was unable to carry on, and must leave his armies to finish the conflict under a new commander.
Now the whole of Italy was laughing at the adventures of the Pope’s son. They remembered the ceremony at which he had been made head of the Papal armies; when he had led his armies out of Rome, he had marched like a conqueror.
This was very amusing to the Romans; and many people were pleased. This should teach the Pope that it was dangerous to his own interests to carry nepotism too far.
Cesare had recovered from his alarm over the Pope’s fainting fit, for Alexander was as full of vitality as ever, and Cesare was not going to lose this opportunity of scoring over his brother.
He called his friends to him and together they devised brilliant posters which they set up on various important roads throughout the city.
“Wanted,” ran the words on these posters, “those who have any news concerning a certain army of the Church. Will anyone having such information impart it at once to the Duke of Gandia.”
Giovanni came home, where he was received with undiminished affection by his father, who immediately began making excuses for his son and assuring everyone that, had Giovanni not had the ill luck to be wounded, there would have been a different tale to tell.
And all who heard marvelled at the dissembling of Alexander who so delighted to deceive himself. But they were soon admiring his diplomacy, for it appeared that the Pope never lost a war. Defeated in battle he might be, but terms followed battle, and from these terms the Pope invariably emerged as the victor.
Cesare went to see his father, and found Giovanni with him.
As Cesare looked at his brother he could not prevent a sneer from curling his lips.
“So,” he cried, “you have not rejoined your army, General.”
“Cardinal, my army and I have parted company,” said Giovanni lightly. “We wearied of each other.”
“So I hear.” Cesare laughed. “All Rome talks of it. There are even posters on the city’s walls.”
“It would be interesting to discover who put them there.” Giovanni’s eyes gleamed murderously.
“Be at peace, my sons,” put in Alexander. “What is done is done. We have suffered ill-fortune and we will now make peace.”
“We have to sue for peace!” Cesare’s tone was grim. “A pretty pass.”
“We’ll make it a pretty pass in all truth,” mused Alexander. “The Orsini are in no mood to continue the fight. I have offered my terms to them now and they will be accepted.”
“Your terms, Holiness?”
“My terms and their terms,” said Alexander lightly. “I shall allow them to buy back their castles. You will see that we shall lose nothing from this war.”
“And Urbino?” asked Cesare. “He is a prisoner. What ransom will be asked for him?”
The Pope shrugged the question aside. “Doubtless his family are gathering together the ransom.”
Cesare’s eyes narrowed. This brilliant man who was their father was in actuality turning Giovanni’s defeat into victory. Giovanni was watching his brother slyly.
He said: “Being weary of war, I rejoice that to-morrow the carnival begins.”
There was hatred in Giovanni’s eyes to match that in Cesare’s. You have sought to disparage me in our father’s eyes, Cesare Borgia, he was thinking; do not imagine that I shall allow you to attack me with impunity. Have a care, for I will find a way to turn the tables, my lord Cardinal!
It was with Cesare that the Pope discussed the peace terms. Giovanni was too busy contriving his costume for the carnival and planning his own revels. He missed Djem who had always had some bizarre and fantastic suggestion to make at such a time.
There must come a day, Cesare was thinking, when our father realizes that I am the one to stand beside him, to share his ambition. How can a man, so brilliant as he is, continue to risk our position through this blind and foolish trust in one son at the expense of the other?
At such times as this Cesare was almost happy. There was no need now to call attention to Giovanni’s shortcomings; they must be perfectly obvious even to the besottedly devoted Alexander.
“My father,” he said now, “you astonish me. We Borgias have just suffered defeat which would have proved disastrous to many, and you are fast turning that defeat into victory.”
Alexander laughed. “My son, more is won at the council table than on the battlefield.”
“That, I venture to suggest, Holiness, might depend on the soldiers. Had I been a soldier I would have carried my banner into the enemy stronghold. I would have placed my heel on the enemy’s throat, and the terms I made would have been all my terms. Indeed, there would be no terms. I should have been conqueror of their estates and castles.”
“Nobly spoken, my son.”
Cesare was alert. Did he detect a certain speculative light in his father’s eyes? Was Alexander going to be reasonable at last?
“But,” went on the Pope, “we are in a certain position now, and we must extricate ourselves from it. The important point in the present case is speed. If we have been humiliated, my son, they are exhausted. They dread further fighting; that is why they are ready to make terms.”
Cesare laughed in admiration. “And you have made them buy back their castles!”
“For 50,000 golden florins.”
“But you would rather have kept the castles, Father; which you would have done had you defeated them completely.”
“We are 50,000 florins the richer.”
“This was to be a beginning. We but started with the Orsini. And now?”
“We shall resort to peace for a while.”
“And the Orsini, when they have recovered from their weakness?”
The Pope looked straight at his son. “There is one clause in the treaty to which I have had to agree. Virginio Orsini was in prison in Naples during the conflict.…”
Cesare snapped his fingers. “And if he had not been, oh my father, that would have been very unfortunate for us.”
The Pope agreed to this. Cesare was smiling; he was remembering those days long ago when he had left his mother’s house and lived for a year in Monte Giordano. He remembered the coming of the great soldier to the Orsini stronghold, and how his young boy’s heart had rejoiced in that man; he thought of the long rides, of Virginio’s grim yet affectionate way with him. During that year one of the heroes of Cesare’s life had been Virginio Orsini. Cesare had been proud when Virginio had wished that he had been his son; and if he had been, he would have made a soldier of him.
“You admire him, I see,” said Alexander.
“He is a great soldier.”
“Not so reliable when the French invaded Italy.”
“Doubtless he had his reasons, Father. The Orsinis have made themselves allies of the French.”
“Against us,” said the Pope. “But this clause in the treaty.… The Orsini demand that Virginio be immediately released from his prison.”
“I see, Father, that you do not wish to release Virginio.”
“You have said yourself that it would have been a different state of affairs had Virginio been at hand to lead his family’s forces. They are our enemies still. At this time they are exhausted by the recent conflict; they are without a true leader; but if they had such a leader …” The Pope shrugged his shoulders. “My son, it occurs to me that the Orsini may be so ready to agree to my terms, insisting only that Virginio be free, so that when he is among them again they may band themselves against us. Virginio must not be freed.”
“Yet you say this is the clause they insist on.”
“It is.”
“And you have agreed to it?”
“I have.”
“So Virginio will in a very short time be free.”
“He should not leave his prison.”
“Yet you have agreed.…”
“We have friends in Naples. There are a few days yet. Cesare, I charge you with this. You have always sought to show me your subtlety. Great commanders must be possessed, not only of courage, but resource.”
“When I was a boy and lived at Monte Giordano I knew him well,” said Cesare slowly.
“That was long ago, my son.”
“Yes,” said Cesare, “long ago.”
The Pope laid his hand on his son’s shoulder.
“You will know how to do what is best for our family,” he said.
It was foolish to harbor sentimental feelings.
Cesare paced up and down his own apartments. It was unlike him to delay when he knew something must be done which would redound to his advantage. And yet, memories would keep recurring. He could see himself riding behind that stalwart figure; he could feel again the admiration he had known.
Virginio Orsini, the man who had made life at Monte Giordano tolerable; Virginio who had wanted to make a soldier of him.
There was no time for delay. A message must be taken at once to Naples. A small quantity of a white powder must be carried there and instructions given.
Virginio Orsini would soon be taking his last meal in the prison.
If it were another I would not hesitate, thought Cesare. I would not give the matter a second thought. But Virginio! Oh nonsense, nonsense! What was a boy’s hero-worship?
Yet he had been kind.
Kind! What had kindness to do with Cesare Borgia?
Still he continued to pace up and down his apartment.
“Not Virginio,” he murmured, “not Virginio Orsini.”
In the streets the Carnival was at its height, and the people of Rome were bent on enjoying themselves. The Pope, with that mental dexterity which amazed all who came into contact with it, had once more brought diplomatic victory out of military defeat with the sleight of hand of a conjuror. The Orsinis had been the victors. But what had they won? A cessation of hostilities merely. They had paid heavily to regain their castles; and the head of their family, Virginio Orsini, although the Pope had granted his release, had died suddenly a few hours before he was due to leave his prison.
The people laughed at the wily ways of the Holy Father as they gave themselves up to enjoying themselves.
Men and women in masks and fancy dress filled the streets. Processions passed along, among which some carried grotesque figures held high over the heads of the revelers; others manipulated fantastic bizarre figures, puppets which performed lewd gestures to the immense amusement of the crowd. There was music, dancing and general revelry, and wars and political intrigue seemed far away.
From his apartment Cesare looked out on the revelers in the square and was angry with himself because he could not erase the memory of Virginio Orsini from his mind; when he slept he would awake startled, imagining that the tall stern figure stood at his bedside watching him reproachfully.
It was foolish, unlike him. He wanted entertainment. He wished Lucrezia was in Rome. He and his father must bring her back, and they must free her from that provincial boor, Giovanni Sforza. He hated the fellow. There was comfort in hating.
Now he would go along to Sanchia’s apartment. He would indulge with her in such an orgy of sensuality that he would forget all the shadows which hung over him, the thought of Sforza and Lucrezia, the memory of Virginio Orsini.
He found Loysella alone in Sanchia’s apartment and demanded to know where her mistress was.
“My lord,” answered Loysella, throwing glances at him from under lowered lids, “the Princess went out some time since with Francesca and Bernardina to look at the carnival. Your lordship should not be dismayed. They were masked.”
He was not dismayed; only slightly irritated.
He was in no mood to go out into that seething crowd to search for her.
He looked at Loysella; Loysella was hopeful.
Then suddenly he turned away in disgust. It was as though he were a boy again, and Virginio stood beside him, reproaching him for some breach of manners.
Abruptly he left the apartment; he went to his own and in vain tried to shut out the sounds of carnival.
Sanchia’s mask only partially concealed her beauty. Through it her blue eyes regarded the scene about her. Her black hair escaped from the hood of her cloak.
Francesca and Bernardina were similarly masked; and they were giggling because they knew that as they left the palace they were being followed.
“What excitement! What a grand carnival!” breathed Francesca. “There were never such carnivals in Naples.”
“Let us wait here and watch the crowds go by,” suggested Sanchia, knowing that the three men were standing behind them.
She glanced over her shoulder and a pair of brilliant eyes beneath a mask met hers and held them.
“I think,” she said, “that we were unwise to come out alone, unescorted by any gentlemen. Why, anything … just anything might happen to us.”
Some passing revelers halted as they saw three girls, for there was that in their bearing which attracted immediate attention.
One young man, carnival-bold, approached Sanchia and seized her hand. “There is a very fair lady cowering beneath that mask, I’ll swear,” he said. “Come, fair one … join us.”
Sanchia said: “I do not wish it.”
“This is carnival, lady, and such as you must not stand aloof.”
She screamed as he took her arm, and one of the men who had been standing behind her cried out: “Dispatch the insolent dog.”
The young man who had first spoken to her turned pale under his mask as one of the trio stepped forward, his sword in his hand. The young man stammered: “ ’Tis carnival time. No harm was meant.…” Then as the other raised his sword and pricked his arm, he cried out and ran, followed by the members of his party.
“Shall I give pursuit, my lord?” asked he who had drawn his sword.
“Nay,” said a languid voice. “It is enough.”
Sanchia turned to him. “I thank you, my lord,” she said. “I shudder to think what might have befallen me and my women had you not been at hand to save us.”
“It is our great pleasure to save such as you,” said the man.
He kissed her hand.
She knew him and she was fully aware that he knew her also. But this was a pleasant game they were playing; it had begun with his return from the wars. She was also aware that it was partly due to his hatred of Cesare that he was determined to pursue her; and although she had no intention of allowing herself to become a symbol between them, she was determined to make Cesare’s brother her lover.
He was handsome—in his way handsomer than Cesare; his reputation was as evil but in a different way. She was going to teach the Duke of Gandia a lesson; she was going to show him that his need of Sanchia of Aragon would exceed his desire for revenge on his brother. That need was going to be the most important thing in his life.
But at the moment it pleased them to pretend, masked as they were, that they were unaware of each other’s identities.
He kept her hand in his.
“Shall we join the revelers?”
“I am not sure that it would be fitting for us to do that,” replied Sanchia. “We merely came out to watch from a distance.”
“Impossible to watch carnival from a distance as you have learnt from the conduct of those insolent dogs. Come, let me show you the carnival. You need have no fear. I am here to protect you.”
“We must keep together—my ladies and I,” she murmured. “I should never forgive myself if aught happened to them.”
She was smiling slyly. What she meant was: I do not trust to your protection, Giovanni. Were there danger, you might run away. But with your attendants close at hand I shall be happier.
“We will keep with our little party,” said Giovanni. He signed to the two men, one of whom immediately took Francesca’s hand the other Bernardina’s. “Now,” he went on, “whither shall we go? To the Colosseum? There will be great revelry there. Or to see the racing in the Corso?”
“Escort us whither you will,” said Sanchia.
“Then may I suggest, my lord,” put in one of the men, “that we find our way out of the crowd. These delicate ladies are in danger of being trampled underfoot by the plebs.”
“You speak wisely,” said Giovanni.
“There is a little albergo near the Via Serpenti. A place where we can be free of the clamor of the common people.”
“Then to it,” said Giovanni.
Sanchia turned to Francesca and Bernardina. “No,” she said, “I do not think I and my ladies should accompany you to this inn. If you will take us to St. Peter’s Square, we shall be safe enough and …”
“Come,” said Giovanni, his eyes shining through his mask, “put yourself in my hands, fair lady. You will regret nothing.”
Sanchia pretended to shiver. “I am a little uneasy.…”
But Giovanni had his arm about her and started off at a run, taking her with him. She looked fearfully over her shoulder, but Francesca and Bernardina were being similarly treated. They gave little shrieks of feigned horror, but their cavaliers ignored them as they followed Giovanni and Sanchia.
“Make way! Make way!” shouted Giovanni as he forced his way through the crowds. Many called after him; some attempted to stop him. Spirits and tempers ran high in carnival time.
But always those two men would be close to Giovanni, and was it something they said, or were they known? However, it was apparent every time that those who challenged them soon slunk away in fear.
Then Sanchia noticed that Giovanni’s cloak was caught together by a brooch on which was emblazoned the grazing bull. His men carried the emblem too, one in his hat, the other on his doublet. Sanchia laughed inwardly. Giovanni would not venture into the streets masked at any time without some indication of who he was, prominently displayed on his person. There might be many to attack a young braggart who made himself unpleasant, but who would dare to raise an arm against a Borgia?
She was enjoying her evening. Cesare was to be taught a lesson. He had been far more interested in his brother’s humiliation than in her, and such slights must be paid for. She knew of a way which would infuriate him more than any. That was the way in which Cesare should pay for the slights he had given her.
There had been understanding glances between herself and Giovanni during the last few days; but this was the most amusing way to allow those little innuendoes to reach their climax.
When they reached the Via Serpenti they hurriedly slipped through a maze of alleys. The noise of the merrymakers seemed muted now as one of Giovanni’s men pushed open the door of an inn and they all went in.
Giovanni shouted: “Bring food. Bring wine … plenty of it.”
The innkeeper came running to them. He bowed low and looked very frightened as his eyes rested on the brooch which Giovanni was wearing.
“Good sirs,” he began.
“You heard us ask for wine and food. Bring it quickly,” said Giovanni.
“With the greatest speed, my lord.”
Giovanni sat on a couch and pulled Sanchia down beside him.
“I am determined,” he whispered, “that you shall enjoy the hospitality … all the hospitality … which the innkeeper can offer.”
Sanchia said: “My lord, I think I should tell you that I am no humble woman to be seized in carnival time.”
“Your voice, your manner betray you,” he said. “But women who venture into the streets at carnival time ask to be seized.”
His men laughed, and applauded everything he said.
“We will drink wine with you and then we shall leave you here,” declared Sanchia.
“We are eager to enjoy all the pleasures that the carnival can offer,” ventured one of the men, keeping his eyes on Giovanni.
“All,” echoed Giovanni.
The innkeeper came hurrying in with wine.
“Is this the best you have?” demanded Giovanni.
“The very best, my lord.”
“Then it should be good, and if it is not I may grow angry.”
The innkeeper was visibly trembling.
“Now,” cried Giovanni, “bolt all doors. We would be alone … completely alone, you understand me?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“As for food, do not bring it after all. I find I am not hungry. Wine will suffice. You have some comfortable rooms in your inn?”
“I can vouch for them,” said one of the men with a snigger, “having already used them.”
“Now leave us, fellow,” said Giovanni. And turning to the ladies: “We will drink to the joy this day will bring us all.”
Sanchia had risen.
“My lord …” she began. Giovanni put his arms about her and embraced her. She struggled, but Giovanni was fully aware that her struggling was feigned, that she knew who he was and that she had been as determined that this should happen as he was.
He put down his goblet and said: “At such a time, I have no need of wine.” He picked up Sanchia in his arms shouting: “Landlord! Take me to the best of your chambers … and delay not, for I am in a hurry.”
Sanchia kicked prettily and ineffectually. Bernardina and Francesca clung together while their two prospective lovers seized them and Sanchia and Giovanni disappeared.
The room was small; its ceiling low; but it was as clean as could be expected.
“Not the couch I would have chosen for you, my Princess,” said Giovanni. “But it will suffice.”
“You should know who I am,” Sanchia told him.
He took off her mask. “I was as wise before,” he answered, “as you were. Why, sweet Sanchia, did you wish me to stage this pretty little show of rape? Mutual agreement to meet the inevitable would have been so much more comfortable.”
“Considerably less amusing,” she said.
“I have a notion,” he challenged, “that you are afraid of Cesare.”
“Why should I be?”
“Because you have been his mistress since you came into Rome, and he is reputed to be a jealous lover.”
“Cesare is unlike other men. Sanchia … insatiable Sanchia. You cannot look at a man without wishing to know him. I saw your looks … I saw your speculation. At the moment we first met I saw it. You were determined that we should be together thus, but you thought to play safe. ‘Let Giovanni take all the blame,’ you said. ‘Therefore let it be rape.’ ”
“Do you think I care what my old lovers think?”
“Even you are afraid of Cesare.”
“I will be dictated to by none.”
“There you are mistaken. In this room, the door locked behind us, I shall be your dictator.”
“You forget that a moment ago you accused me of arranging this.”
“Let us not argue about that. Sanchia … Sanchia!”
She laughed. “How masterful you are! Why, if you had shown the same determination against the Orsini as you do toward three defenseless women …”
He caught her by the shoulders and shook her, temporarily angered. Then he laughed at her. “You do not want a gentle lover, Madonna Sanchia. I understand.”
“I am thinking of Francesca and Bernardina.”
“They will be in their lovers’ arms by now. They have been watching each other for days; ever since you decided that you would change brothers, those four people have been waiting for this day. Come, why procrastinate?”
“Why, indeed!” she murmured.
Cesare was furious, for it was not long before his spies brought news to him that Sanchia and Giovanni were constantly together.
He went to Sanchia’s apartments while her women were combing her hair. Bursting in upon them he found them giggling over their adventures with their lovers. He strode to Sanchia, swept the dish of sweetmeats from the table and, waving his arms, shouted to her women: “Get out!”
They left her fearfully, for they thought they saw murder in Cesare’s eyes.
“So, you harlot,” he said, “I hear that you are my brother’s mistress.”
Sanchia lifted her shoulders reflectively. “And does that surprise you?”
“That you give yourself to any who asks, no! But that you dare to arouse my anger, yes!”
“It surprises me that you have time to be angry with me … you who waste so much of it being jealous of Giovanni’s dukedom, and Giovanni’s favor with your father.”
“Be silent. Do you think I shall allow you to insult and degrade me in this way?”
“I cannot see, Cesare, that you can do very much about it.”
She had turned and was smiling at him, her blue eyes blazing with desire for him. When he had this mad rage upon him she found him more interesting than she did when he was an affectionate lover.
“You will see, Sanchia,” he said. “I only ask you to have patience.”
“I am not a very patient person.”
“You are a harlot, I know, the most notorious harlot in Rome. One brother’s wife, and mistress of the other two. Do you know that the whole of the city talks of your behavior?”
“And of yours, dear brother … and of Giovanni’s … and of the Holy Father’s. Yes, and even of Lucrezia’s.”
“Lucrezia is innocent of all scandal,” he said sharply.
“Is that so?” she asked lightly.
Cesare strode to her and gave her a stinging blow on the side of her face, she caught his hand and dug her teeth into it, watching the blood spurt while she put her hand to her burning cheek.
It was as though the sight of blood maddened him. Anger leaped into his eyes as he caught her by the wrist, and she cried out in pain. “Do not think,” he said, “that you can treat me as you may have treated others.”
“Cesare, take your hands from me. You are causing me pain.”
“It delights me to hear it. It is exactly what I intend.” Again those sharp teeth were dug into his hand; he caught her by the shoulder and, as his grip on her wrist was released, she scratched his face. The excitement of battle was on them both. He tried to grasp her hands again; but she had him by the ear and was twisting it.
In a few moments they were rolling on the floor together, and inevitably, with two such people, desire and brutality mingled.
She resisted; not because she wished to resist but because she wished to prolong the battle. He called her bastard, harlot, every name that he could think of which would hurt one as proud as she. She retaliated. Was he not a bastard? she screamed. “Brute! Cardinal!” she sneered.
She lay panting on the floor, her eyes wild, her clothes torn, while she thought of fresh insults to hurl at him.
“All Rome knows of your jealousy of your brother. You … the Cardinal! You with your fine clothes and your mistresses.… I hate Your Eminence. I hate you, Cardinal Borgia.”
He bore down on her; she kicked him; he cursed her; and after a while they were silent together.
She laughed afterward, rising from the floor to stare at her appearance in the polished metal of her mirror.
“We look like two beggars on the Corso,” she said. “How shall I hide these scratches, these bruises you have given me, you brute? Ah, but you are well marked too. It was worth it though, was it not? I begin to think that the floor is as good a bed as any.”
He was looking at her with hatred. But she liked his hatred. It was more stimulating than affection.
“Now,” he said, “perhaps you will be more wary when you next meet my brother.”
“Why so?” she asked.
“Because you have discovered that I am a man of some temper.”
“I adore your temper, Cesare. You cannot ask me to forgo the pleasure of rousing it.”
“You mean then that you will not give him up?”
She appeared to be considering. “We find such pleasure in each other,” she said almost plaintively, longing to arouse him to a fresh frenzy.
But he had grown cold.
He said: “If you prefer one at whom all Italians are jeering, then continue to enjoy him.”
And he went out, leaving her stimulated but a little disappointed.
The Pope watched the growing antagonism between the two brothers with uneasiness.
Little Goffredo was bewildered. He had been delighted that both his brothers found his wife so attractive; but when he discovered that their admiration for his beautiful wife caused dissention between them which was greater than anything ever had before, he began to be worried.
Giovanni rarely left Sanchia’s side. He liked to ride out with her through the streets of Rome; he did his best to circulate rumors concerning their relationship and was very eager that they should reach Cesare’s ears.
Then suddenly Cesare seemed to lose interest in Sanchia.
His father sent for him because Alexander had some matter of importance to discuss, and he was finding that it was with Cesare rather than with his cherished Giovanni that he wished to discuss matters of policy.
“My dear son,” said Alexander, taking Cesare into his arms and kissing him, “there is a matter of some importance which I wish to discuss with you.”
It delighted the Pope to see the frown on his son’s face fade at such words.
“It is of Lucrezia’s husband, this man Sforza that I wish to speak,” said the Pope.
Cesare’s lip curled in disgust and Alexander went on: “Your opinion of the man coincides with my own.”
“It has caused me great grief,” replied Cesare, “to think of my sister’s spending her days in that remote town, far away from us all … and Your Holiness giving him orders which he does not obey. I would that we could rid Lucrezia of the oaf.”
“It is to discuss this matter that I have called you to me now. Cesare, I wish this to be a closely guarded secret.”
“Between us two?” asked Cesare eagerly.
“Between us two.”
“And Giovanni?”
“No, Cesare, no. I would not even trust Giovanni with this. Giovanni is light-hearted and not as serious minded as you are, Cesare. I wish this to be a matter closely guarded, so that is why I choose to confide in you.”
“My dearest son, I am determined to rid my daughter of that man.”
“And the means?”
“There is divorce, but divorce is not beloved of the Church; and as the Head of the Church I am expected to frown on it except in special circumstances.”
“Your Holiness would prefer another method?”
Alexander nodded.
“It should not be impossible,” said Cesare, his eyes shining. He was thinking, it had been sad to know that Virginio must die, but there would be no such sadness where Giovanni Sforza was concerned.
“Our first move,” said the Pope, “would be to recall him to Rome.”
“Then let us make it.”
“Easier said than done, my son. The provincial lord entertains certain suspicions regarding us.”
“My poor Lucrezia, how she must suffer!”
“I am not sure of that, Cesare. Her letters would seem to grow more distant. Sometimes I feel that the Lord of Pesaro is taking our Lucrezia away from us, that she is becoming more of a wife to him than a daughter to me or a sister to you.”
“It shall not be. He will rob her of her charm. He will make her dull … insipid as he is. We must bring her back, Father.”
The Pope nodded. “And Sforza with her. And when they come …” The Pope hesitated, and Cesare prompted him: “And when they come, Holiness?”
“We will disarm him with our friendship. That will be the first step, Cesare. We will tell him by our words, gestures and deeds that we are no longer estranged from him. He is the spouse of our dearest one, and as such we will love him.”
“ ’Twill be a hard task,” said Cesare grimly.
“Not when you remember to what it is leading us.”
“When we have his confidence, we will ask him to a banquet,” mused Cesare. “He will not die at once. His shall be a lingering death.”
“You shall introduce him to the embrace of cantarella.”
“With the utmost pleasure,” said Cesare.
So to Rome came Lucrezia and with her rode her husband. Giovanni Sforza was reluctant; he grumbled continually throughout the journey.
“What do your family plan now? Why have they become so friendly toward me? I do not trust them.”
“Oh, Giovanni, you are too distrustful. It is because they have so much regard for me, because they are delighted to see me as a happy wife, that they offer you their friendship.”
“I warn you I shall be wary,” declared Giovanni.
He was surprised by his reception.
The Pope embraced him, called him his beloved son, and said that as the husband of Lucrezia he was entitled to a high position at the Papal Court. Never had Giovanni enjoyed such prestige as he did during those weeks. He began to lose his fears. When all is considered, he told himself, I am Lucrezia’s husband, and Lucrezia is well satisfied with me.
He confided in a certain retainer of his whom he liked to take with him wherever he went, for he felt that Giacomino, his handsome young chamberlain, was one of the few people whom he could trust.
“My lord,” said Giacomino, “it appears that you are well received here, but have a care, oh my lord. They say that it is unwise to eat rashly at the Borgia table.”
“I have heard such rumors.”
“Remember the sudden death of Virginio Orsini, my lord.”
“I think of it.”
“My lord, it would please me if you ate food prepared only by me.”
That made Giovanni laugh; but there were few people who had such a true affection for him as Giacomino had, and he knew it; he laid an affectionate arm about his servant’s shoulders.
“Fret not, Giacomino,” he said. “I can take good care of myself.”
He told Lucrezia of Giacomino’s anxieties.
“They are groundless,” Lucrezia assured him. “My father has taken you into the family circle. He knows that you and I can be happy together. But Giacomino is a good fellow, Giovanni; and I am glad he feels so deeply for you.”
And in the weeks which followed, Giovanni Sforza acquired a new air of confidence.
I can make Lucrezia happy, he thought; and the Pope loves his daughter so dearly that he is ready to bless any who can do that. He began to believe that he had exaggerated rumor and that the Borgias were merely a family who, with the exception of Giovanni and Cesare, were particularly devoted to one another.
Carnival time came round again, and the Borgias found the revels irresistible. The Pope, watching the scenes from his balcony, called his applause for the lewdness, and gave his blessing at the same time. There had never been a man who was able to mingle his love for the lewd and the pious so happily together; there was never a man more ready to take his religion in a merry way. At carnival times, more than any other, the people were satisfied with their Holy Father.
Giovanni Sforza disliked the carnival, was embarrassed by the lewd scenes which were enacted and, finding no pleasure in the coarse jokes, he was already homesick for Pesaro.
He did not want to go out and mingle with the crowds in the streets, so Lucrezia went with her brothers and Sanchia, some of their men and Sanchia’s and Lucrezia’s women.
It was Giovanni Borgia’s idea that they should dress as mummers and mingle more freely with the crowds.
This seemed great fun to Lucrezia who, unlike her husband, delighted in the gaiety of Rome and certainly did not sigh for quiet Pesaro.
Sanchia had decided to give her attention to Giovanni in order to arouse Cesare’s anger, and Giovanni was nothing loth; in their mummers’ dresses, masks hiding their faces, they danced through the streets, Sanchia and Giovanni leading the troupe, dancing in the Spanish manner, suggestively, and going through the motions of courtship to an end which seemed inevitable.
But Cesare was not thinking of Sanchia at this moment; he had plans which concerned Giovanni, but he was shelving those, for more pressing ones concerning another Giovanni obsessed him at this moment. Moreover Lucrezia was with him, and his lust for Sanchia had never been as great as his love for his little sister.
He could lash himself into a fury now, not because Sanchia was behaving amorously with Giovanni, but by thinking of Lucrezia’s life with Sforza.
“Lucrezia, little one,” he said, “you love the carnival.”
“Oh brother, yes. Did I not always? Do you remember how we used to watch from the loggia of our mother’s house and long to be among the revelers?”
“I remember how you clapped your hands and danced there on the loggia.”
“And sometimes you lifted me, so that I could see better.”
“We share many happy memories, beloved. When I think of the times we have been parted, I feel murderous toward those who parted us.”
“Do not talk of murderous feelings on such a night as this, Cesare.”
“It is such a night that takes my thoughts back to those weary separations. That husband of yours has deliberately kept you from us too long.”
She smiled gently. “He is Lord of Pesaro, Cesare, and as such has his duties to Pesaro.”
“And what think you, Lucrezia—will he soon be carrying you back to his dreary home?”
“I think that before long he will be impatient to return.”
“And you want to leave us?”
“Cesare! How can you say so? Do you not realize that I miss you all so sadly that I can never be happy away from you?”
He drew a deep breath. “Ah! That is what I wished to hear you say.” He put his arm about her and held her close to him. “Dearest sister,” he whispered, “have no fear. It will not be long now before you are free of that man.”
“Cesare?” She spoke his name in the form of a question.
The excitement of the dance was upon him. His hatred of Sanchia and his brother was overlaid by his love for this little sister. He felt a great longing to protect her from all unhappiness and, believing that she despised her husband, even as he and their father did, he could not lose another moment before telling her that she would soon be free of him.
“It will not be long, sweet sister,” went on Cesare.
“Divorce?” she asked breathlessly.
“Divorce! Holy Church abhors it. Have no fear, Lucrezia. There are other ways of ridding oneself of an undesirable partner.”
“You cannot mean …” she cried.
But he silenced her.
“Listen, my dearest. We’ll not talk of these matters here in the streets. I have plans concerning your husband, and I can promise you that before next carnival time you will have forgotten his very existence. There, does that please you?”
Lucrezia felt sick with horror. She did not love Giovanni Sforza, but she had tried to; when she was in Pesaro she had done her best to be the sort of wife he wished for, and she had not been unhappy in her efforts. He was not the lover of whom she had dreamed, but he was her husband. He had feelings, aspirations; and if he was full of self-pity, she too had pity for him. He had been unfortunate so many times.
“Cesare,” she said, “I am afraid.…”
His lips were close to her ear. “People watch us,” he said. “We are not dancing with the others as we should. I will come to your apartment to-morrow in the afternoon. We will make sure that we are neither overlooked nor overheard. Then I will explain my plans to you.”
Lucrezia nodded mutely.
She began to dance, but now there was no gaiety in her. Those words of Cesare’s kept drumming in her ears. They are going to murder Giovanni Sforza, she told herself.
Afraid and unsure, that night she was sleepless, and next day disturbed.
Never in her life had she felt so closely bound to her family; never had she had to face such an important decision.
To her father and her brother she believed she owed complete loyalty. To betray their confidences would be to commit an unforgivable act. And yet to stand aside and allow them to murder her husband—how could she do that?
Lucrezia discovered that she had a conscience.
She was aware of her youth and inexperience of life. She realized that like her father she longed for harmony all about her; and unlike him she could not achieve it ruthlessly. She did not love Sforza; she understood now that she would not greatly care if she never saw him again; but what horrified her was that he should be led to violent death or even quiet death, and that she would be among those who led him there, which she must be if she did not warn him.
She was faced with two alternatives. She could remain loyal to her father and brother and let Sforza go to his death or she could warn Sforza and betray her family.
It was a terrible decision which she had to make. All her love and devotion was at war with her sense of rightness.
Murder! It was a hideous thing and she wanted none of it.
If I let him to go his death the memory of my betrayal would haunt me all my life, she thought.
And if she betrayed Cesare and her father! They would never trust her again; she would be shut out from the trinity of love and devotion on which she had come to rely.
So she lay, sleepless, asking herself what she must do, rising and going to the Madonna’s shrine, falling on her knees and praying for help.
There was no help. What she did must be her own decision.
Cesare was coming in the afternoon to tell her of his plans, and she knew that before that time she must have decided which course she was to take.
She sent one of her women for Giacomino, Sforza’s chamberlain.
As Giacomino stood before her she thought how handsome he was; there was an honesty in him which was apparent, and she knew that he was her husband’s most faithful servant.
“Giacomino,” said Lucrezia, “I have sent for you that I may talk to you for a while.”
Lucrezia was aware of the little lights of alarm which had sprung into the young man’s eyes. He believed that she found him attractive, for doubtless many women did, and she felt that she was making matters very difficult; but this was her plan and she must carry it out, since she saw no other way out of her dilemma. Giacomino stood before her with bowed head.
“Do you long to return to Pesaro, Giacomino?”
“I am happy to be where my lord is, Madonna.”
“Yet if you could choose, Giacomino?”
“Pesaro is my home, Madonna, and one has an affection for home.”
She nodded and went on to talk of Pesaro. She was thinking, He is bewildered, this good Giacomino, and I must go on talking, even though he may believe that I am seeking to make him my lover.
Giacomino had taken the stool she had indicated. He seemed to grow more miserable with every passing moment, as though he were already wondering how he, his master’s most loyal servant, was going to repulse her. But at length she heard the sound for which she was waiting, and greatly relieved, sprang up, crying: “Giacomino, my brother is on his way here.”
“I must go at once, Madonna,” said the agitated Giacomino.
“But wait. If you leave through the door he will see you, and my brother would not be pleased to see you here, Giacomino.”
What fear Cesare inspired in everyone! The young man had grown pale, his discomfort turning to terror.
“Oh Madonna, what shall I do?” stammered Giacomino.
“I will hide you here. Quick! Get you behind this screen and I will place these draperies over you. If you keep perfectly still you will not be discovered. But I implore you to be as still as you possibly can, for if my brother were to discover you in my apartments …”
“I will be still, Madonna.”
“Your teeth are chattering, Giacomino. I see you realize full well the dangerous position in which you find yourself. My brother does not like me to receive young men in friendship. It angers him. Oh, do take care, Giacomino.”
As she spoke she was pushing him behind the screen and arranging the draperies over him. She looked at her work with satisfaction; the chamberlain was completely hidden.
Then she hurried to her chair and was sitting there assuming a pensive attitude when Cesare came into the room.
“Lucrezia, my dearest.” He took both her hands and kissed them, as he smiled into her face. “I see you are prepared for me, and have arranged that we should be alone.”
“Yes, Cesare, you have something to say to me?”
“It was dangerous to talk last night in the streets, sister.” He went to the window and looked out. “Ah, the revelries still continue. The mumming and masquing goes on. Is Giovanni Sforza out there in the streets this day, or is he moping in his apartment dreaming of dear dull Pesaro?”
“Dreaming of Pesaro,” said Lucrezia.
“Let him dream while he may,” cried Cesare grimly. “There is not much time left to him for dreaming.”
“You refer to the plans you have made for him?”
“I do, sister. Oh, it has maddened me to think of you with that provincial boor. He deserves to die for having presumed to marry my sweet sister.”
“Poor Giovanni, he was forced into it.”
“You yearn for freedom, dearest sister, and because I am the most indulgent brother in the world, I long to give you all you desire.”
“You do, Cesare. I am happy when I am with you.”
Cesare had begun to pace the floor.
“Our father and I have not told you of our plans before. This is because we know you to be young and tender. You were ever one to plead for the meanest slave who was in disgrace, and ask that punishment be averted. It may be, we thought, that you would plead for your husband. But we know that you long to be free of him … even as we long to see you free.”
“What do you plan to do, Cesare?” asked Lucrezia slowly.
“To remove him.”
“You mean … to kill him?”
“Never mind how we do it, sweet sister. Before long he will cease to worry you.”
“When do you propose to do this deed?”
“You will ask him to a banquet or … will it be that he meets his assassins by night in some dark alley near the Tiber?”
“Our little Sforza is not without friends,” said Cesare. “I think a banquet would suit him better.”
“Cesare, there is talk of a poison which you use—cantarella. Is it true that the secret is known only to you and to our father, and that you are able not only to kill people but decide on the day and even hour of their death?”
“You have a clever brother, Lucrezia. Does it make you happy to know that he puts all his skill at your disposal?”
“I know that you would do anything in the world for me,” she told him. She moved to the window. “Oh Cesare,” she went on, “I long to go out into the streets. I long to mingle with the revelers as we did last night. Let us ride out to Monte Mario as we did in the old days, do you remember? Let us go now.”
He came to her and laid his hands on her shoulders. “You want to feel the air on your face,” he said. “You want to say to yourself, Freedom is one of the greatest gifts life can offer, and soon it will be mine!”
“How well you know me,” she said. “Come, let us go now.”
Only when they had left the Palace could she breathe freely. She was astonished at the cleverness with which she had been able to play her part.
Every minute had been fraught with terror that something would betray the presence of a third party in the room; and even more terrifying had been the constant thought: Cesare, my dearest, my beloved, I am betraying you.
Giacomino extricated himself from the draperies and made all haste to his master’s apartments. He was breathless and begged Giovanni Sforza to see him privately.
“My lord,” he stammered as soon as they were alone, “Madonna Lucrezia sent for me, I know not why, unless it was to give me some message to bring to you, but while I was in her apartments Cesare Borgia arrived and Madonna Lucrezia, fearing his anger, forced me to hide behind a screen. There I heard that he and the Pope are planning to murder you.”
Sforza’s eyes dilated with terror.
“I suspected it,” he said.
“My lord, there is not a moment to spare. We must leave Rome with all speed.”
“You are right. Go prepare the strongest horses we have. We will set out at once for Pesaro. Only there can I be safe from my murderous relations.”
So Giacomino obeyed, and in less than an hour after the chamberlain had heard Cesare and Lucrezia talking together, he and Sforza were riding at full gallop out of Rome.