Light on Lucrezia

It was impossible for the arrival of little Giovanni Borgia to go unnoticed, and the new child at the Vatican became the main source of conversation in certain circles. Who is Giovanni Borgia? was the question of the day. He was given a new title, the Infante Romano.

Alexander was faintly perturbed. The marriage with Ferrara would appear to be settled, but this was not so. Ercole had shown quite clearly that he was not enthusiastic for the marriage; he had bargained for his ducats and honors like a merchant; and Alexander believed he would choose the first opportunity to slide out of the agreement. It was only fear of the Papacy and the present unrest in Italy which made him agree; the arrogant aristocrat thought his family too good for that of the Borgias; in his prim way he recoiled from alliance with a family which had provoked more scandals than any other in Italy. Therefore it was a pity that there should be at this time another scandal—and that concerning a three-year-old child.

Who is the Infante Romano? It was impossible to escape from the question.

Isabella d’Este would be writing to her father, telling him of her belief as to the parentage of the mysterious child. If Lucrezia’s name were mentioned in connection with the child, Ercole might consider he had ample reasons for breaking the marriage agreement.

Alexander then drew up a Bull, the prime motive of which was to legitimize little Giovanni, for he wished this healthy little boy with the flashing dark eyes to be known as a true Borgia, and legitimization was the only means of doing so. The child was, he declared, the son of Cesare, Duke of Valentinois, and a woman of Rome. Cesare, father of so many illegitimate children, would not mind accepting responsibility for another.

The Infante Romano then was the son of Cesare Borgia, and this accounted for the delight the Pope found in the child.

But Alexander was perturbed. He must consider the future, those days when he might not be there to protect the interests of the child. He wished to leave him certain properties; he accordingly drew up another Bull which should remain secret at least for as long as he lived. In this he declared the child to be his own by a woman of Rome. But for the moment he had stifled the rumors. He had given to the world his explanation of his love and care of the child, and the mystery would seem to be solved. The anxious Ercole at least could not use it as an excuse for canceling the wedding plans.



Meanwhile the King of France was planning his attack on Naples. He knew that, although he might conquer the land, he could not hold it without an investiture and for this reason he wished to placate the Pope. Therefore he had helped Cesare to conquer Romagna, and Cesare was to be his ally in the march on Naples.

Louis had made another shrewd move by forming an alliance with Spain. For certain concessions (the acquisition of Apulia and Calabria) the Spaniards had agreed to stand aside and leave their Aragonese kinsmen of Naples to fight alone.

Louis demanded that Cesare should leave garrisons in the towns he had conquered and join him in the conquest of Naples—which Louis declared was part of their contract. Cesare was furious, for he had been made to see how little his triumphs had been due to himself. He was realist enough to understand that he was under the Papal influence and that of France, and that should these be removed he would stand naked to his enemies.

There was disturbing news from Maximilian who was not pleased by the Franco-Spanish alliance and demanded to know who these Borgias were who had set themselves up as dabblers in European politics. He let it be known that he was considering coming into Italy himself and that he would smash through this petty kingdom of Romagna if only for the pleasure of making it clear to the Borgias that they were nothing but an insignificant family, a member of which happened to have been elected Pope.

It was humiliating, yet there was no help for it but to obey the French and march to Naples. Federico in panic surrendered before the arrival of the soldiers, and Louis offered him exile in France which he gratefully took. Thus, when the French with Cesare and his soldiers came into Naples, there was no battle; Naples was theirs to command, and the people came into the streets to welcome the conquerors.

Humiliation was turned to triumph and Cesare rode in glory through Naples.

Federico was now an exile—that Federico who had refused to allow his daughter to marry a Borgia! It was a moment for which Cesare had yearned for a long time. Moreover there were many who were fascinated by him, and in the processions of victory more eyes were turned on Cesare Borgia than on Louis of France.

There were balls and banquets, and Cesare was the center of attraction at these. There were many women eager to be noticed by him, although news of the massacre of Capua had reached them, and it was said that there had never been such barbaric savagery as that displayed by Cesare Borgia in the Neapolitan campaign, and that many French Captains who had prided themselves on their chivalry had made it known that they did not wish to be thought of as allies of such a man.

Cesare was always at his most brutal when he believed his dignity had been insulted; and every cruelty he perpetrated during that campaign was meant to soothe those wounds inflicted by Princess Carlotta and her father, Federico.

At Capua he had ridden through the town forcing his way into houses wherever he had heard there were beautiful young girls. He was insistent that they should be virgins; therefore it was necessary that they should be of a tender age. He discovered forty of them and demanded that they be taken to Rome, housed in his palace, and kept there to form a harem for his pleasure. His rule was barbaric. Men whom he suspected of insulting him, even by a word, had their tongues cut out, hands cut off and were exposed to public view until they died.

He set about amusing himself but so promiscuously did he do this that it was not long before he was again smitten with that disease which he had contracted in his early youth, from which he suffered periodic attacks and which was known throughout Italy as the male francese.

This sickness, exhausting him physically as it did, never failed to have its effect on his mind. His wildness increased with it; his anger was even more easily aroused; suffering pain as he did, he seemed to be filled with a demoniacal desire to inflict it on others.

There was a shiver through the whole of Rome when Cesare returned to recuperate and join in the celebrations of his sister’s coming marriage.



Alfonso d’Este, working in his foundry by day and amusing himself with his countless mistresses by night, was the least disturbed member at his father’s court.

“All this fuss about a marriage!” he guffawed. “Let us get the matter done with.”

His brothers, Ippolito, Ferrante and Sigismondo who would travel to Rome to escort Lucrezia back to Ferrara, argued with him. He scarcely listened. There were continual arguments in the family, which was perhaps not so surprising when there were so many brothers, all of different opinions.

Ippolito, the fastidous Cardinal who longed to wear jewels and tasteful garments and had even designed a Cardinal’s robe of his own, declared that he was all eagerness to see the bride. He had heard such stories about her. She was reputed to be beautiful with wonderful yellow hair which was probably dyed or brightened in some way. He felt that a woman with such a history would be interesting.

Ferrante declared that he was longing to see her. An incestuous murderess would make life exciting in Ferrara!

Sigismondo crossed himself hastily and said that they should go down on their knees and pray that no harm should grow out of the marriage.

Alfonso laughed at them. “Have done,” he said. “This is a woman like ten thousand others.”

“There you are wrong, brother,” said Ferrante. “She is a seductress, and it is said that her brother, Cesare Borgia, murdered his brother and her husband out of desire for her.”

Alfonso spat over his shoulder. “I could find a dozen like her any night in any brothel in Ferrara.” He yawned. He was going back to his foundry.

Ercole called Ippolito to him. It was no use talking to Alfonso. Now more than ever he found it difficult to believe Alfonso was his son. It was distressing to witness his low tastes, his animal sexuality. Ercole had prided himself that the Este court was the center of culture. How could it continue so when he was dead and Alfonso ruled in his place? He himself had lived as chastely as a man of his time could have been expected to live. His wife, Eleanora of Aragon, had been virtuous; she had borne him six children, and four of these had been sons. His daughters had been a credit to him—his dear Isabella, who now ruled in Mantua, and Beatrice who had been the wife of Ludovico of Milan but was unfortunately now dead. He himself had only two mistresses (having fewer he would have been suspected of impotence) and one of these had borne him a daughter named Lucrezia, and the other—beautiful Isabella Arduino—had presented him with his beloved son Giulio who was admired throughout the court for those wonderful flashing dark eyes of his, so like his mother’s that he was a continual reminder of past passion.

Ercole was a cultured gentleman; Alfonso, apart from his one talent for playing the viol, was a boor.

So it was to Ippolito that he must talk of this marriage, and as he talked, regretted, as he had so many times before, that Ippolito was not his eldest son.

“I do not despair altogether,” he said, “of foiling the Pope’s plans.”

Ippolito was surprised. “At this late stage, Father?”

“Until the woman is actually here, there is hope. The Pope is urging that you set out for Rome at once. Thus you will reach the city before the winter.” Ercole laughed. “I am delaying. I am telling him that the dowry must be paid in large ducats and not chamber ones, and he is protesting.”

“You think that will hold up matters?”

Ercole chuckled. “I do indeed. Then the winter will be upon us, and who knows what will have happened by the spring?”

“Father, what arrangements are you making for the traveling of Sister Lucia’s nuns?”

Ercole’s face lengthened. Ippolito had introduced a subject which involved the spending of money, and such subjects always upset Ercole.

“It will be an expensive matter to transport them from Viterbo to Ferrara,” went on Ippolito. “And I fear, my dear father, that you will be asked to pay for the journey.”

Ercole was thinking of Sister Lucia da Narni whom he cherished here in Ferrara. Being very interested in theological matters he had been always impressed by miracles, and any who could provide them was sure of a welcome at his court. Some years ago Sister Lucia, who was in a Dominican convent in Viterbo, had begun to see the stigmata forming on her hands. This phenomenon appeared every Friday, and Ercole had been so impressed by what he heard of this miracle and so certain that Sister Lucia must be a very holy woman, that he had wished her to leave Viterbo and come to Ferrara.

Sister Lucia was not unwilling, but her superiors would not allow her to leave them, for they saw that she would bring much gain and glory to them. However, the sister was put in a basket, smuggled out of the convent, and brought to Duke Ercole who, delighted with his acquisition, installed her in a convent of her own, visited her frequently, looking upon the stained rags which she produced on Fridays as holy relics.

But she wished to have those nuns about her with whom she had lived at Viterbo, and after many negotiations it was agreed that certain of the nuns should come to share the Ferrara convent with Sister Lucia.

It was the transportation of these nuns which was now causing Ercole some concern. And Ippolito, watching his father slyly, said suddenly: “The nuns would have to pass through Rome. Why should they not travel with the bride and her company?”

Ercole was looking at his son speculatively.

Ippolito went on: “Why then, Father, they could travel at her expense.”

“It is a good idea, my son,” said Ercole.

“And think, Father, if you successfully oppose the match, in addition to all those ducats you will lose, you will have to pay for the nuns’ journey yourself. You stand to lose, my father, if you do not accept Lucrezia.”

Ippolito was filled with secret laughter as he watched avarice and family pride grapple with one another.



Cesare sought his sister. She was surrounded by her women, and there were rolls of beautiful material in the apartment. Lucrezia was draping some of this about one of them and indulging in one of her favorite occupations—designing her own dresses.

The brocade of that shade of deep crimson, which had a hint of blue in it and which was called morello, fell from her hands as she saw Cesare. She felt the blood leave her face and she appeared to be without life, unable to move. Every time she saw him, she seemed to sense change in him. She was moved by pity, by fear and by admiration. There was no one like him in the world, no one else who could ever have the same power to move her, to hurt her, to fill her with tenderness and with fear.

“Why Cesare …” she began.

He smiled sneeringly at the fine materials. “So,” he said, “you are preparing for the wedding.”

“There is a great deal to do,” she said. She waved her hand and the women were only too ready to leave her.

“My brother,” she said, “it makes me happy to see you back in Rome.”

He laughed, and touched his face with beautiful slender fingers, so like his father’s. “The reason for my return does not make me happy.”

“You suffer so. I trust the cure has done its work.”

“They tell me it has, but I wonder sometimes whether the foulness will ever leave me. If I but knew who brought it to me this time …” His eyes were cruel, and she shuddered. Stories of his barbaric cruelty to the Neapolitans had reached her and she, who deplored cruelty and whose great desire was to live in peace with all around her, longed for him to curb his violence.

“Well, sister,” he said, “you do not seem pleased to see me.”

“Then it is because I see you not looking as well as I would wish to see you.”

He took her by the arm, and she tried not to show that his grip hurt her.

“This man to whom they are marrying you,” he said, “he is a boor, I hear. Alfonso. Alfonso the Second! He will bear no resemblance to the first Alfonso … that little one who so delighted you.”

She would not look at him. She whispered: “It is our fate to marry when we are told to marry, and accept the partners chosen for us.”

“My Lucrezia!” he said. “Would to God …”

She knew what he meant but she would not let him say it. She interrupted quickly: “We shall meet often. You shall visit me in Ferrara; I shall visit you in Romagna.”

“Yes,” he said. “That must be so. Nothing should part us, Lucrezia. Nothing shall, as long as there is life in this body.” He put his face close to hers. He whispered: “Lucrezia … you tremble. You are afraid of me. Why, in the name of all the saints? Why?”

“Cesare,” she answered him, “soon I have to leave Rome. Soon … I must go to my marriage.…”

“And you are afraid … afraid of the brother who loves you. Afraid because he is your brother … Lucrezia, I will not have you afraid. I will have you welcome me … love me … love me as I love you.”

“Yes, Cesare.”

“For love you I do, as I love no other. Always, no matter whom I am with, it is Lucrezia I love. All others are dull … they tire me. They are not Borgias. Lucrezia … Lucrezia … I would give so much … years of my life if …”

“No,” she said fiercely, “no!”

“But I say Yes,” he told her.

His hand was at the nape of her neck. She thought in that moment that he was going to kill her because he was imagining her with her new husband, and could not bear to see such images.

Then suddenly he released her. He laughed, and his laughter was bitter.

“The Borgia in you, Lucrezia, is hidden by the gentle serenity of the woman who would wish to be like all others … the gentle Lucrezia who longs to be a wife and mother … meek and mild—Lucrezia who would deny her Borgia blood for the sake of peace. You shall come to my apartments tonight. There shall be a supper party. Our father will be there and others. And this party shall be for your delight.”

“I shall come with the greatest pleasure,” she said.

“Yes, Lucrezia,” he told her, “you shall come.”



In Cesare’s apartments there took place that night an orgy which would be remembered as long as the name of Borgia would be.

It was of Cesare’s own invention; and his apartments were lighted by many brilliant candelabra and therein he had set up a Papal throne, elaborately covered with the finest brocade. Upon it was seated the Pope, and next to him Lucrezia, and on her other side Cesare himself.

There was feasting, and the conversation was lewd. Cesare set the pace, and he was fresh from the campaign in Naples, during which his barbarism and love of orgiastic spectacle had become intensified. The Pope was expectant. There was nothing he liked better than what he called goodly company, and he was not the man to turn from lewd talk nor from lewd behavior.

Cesare had ordered that fifty courtesans be brought to the apartment, and they came, some of the most notorious in Rome, ready to do whatever they should be asked, providing they received adequate payment; and payment or not, none would dare offend Cesare Borgia.

The payment for this night’s work was to be very high indeed, and in addition they had the honor of working for Cesare and entertaining the Holy Father and the bride-to-be.

They began by dancing, and as the music grew wilder, so did their dancing. There was one theme: seduction and fulfillment; and this they stressed again and again. Cesare watched intently. He had placed on a small table a selection of dresses made of the finest silk, leather shoes and hats; and these he said were prizes which he wished Lucrezia to distribute. She must watch carefully, for he wished her to bestow the prizes on those whom she thought most worthy.

The Pope applauded the dances, and laughed with hilarity when the prostitutes began to discard one item of clothing after another.

Lucrezia sat very still, trying not to glance sideways at her father and brother, trying to set a fixed smile on her face.

Brought up as she had been in her particular age she was not shocked to see these naked women. She had seen suggestive dances many times; she had listened to bawdy plays. She could only apply the standards of her age to such; but this entertainment was symbolic. This was Cesare’s way of telling her that she was one of them; she belonged to them; and that even when she was living with the prudish Este family, she would remember this night.

“Now,” said Cesare, “the contest begins.”

“I am all interest,” said the Pope, his eyes on a plump dark-haired woman who discarded the last of her garments.

Cesare clapped his hands and a bowl of hot chestnuts was brought to them.

“We shall scatter these, and the ladies will retrieve them,” he explained. “And each will hold a lighted candelabrum in her hand as she does so. It will be no easy feat in the state they are in.”

“Your wine was potent. I declare I should not feel inclined to scramble for chestnuts,” said the Pope, taking a handful and throwing them at the dark-haired courtesan.

Now all in the room, except Lucrezia, were rocking with laughter at the antics of the drunken prostitutes. Some shrieked as the lighted candles in the shaking hands of others touched them. Some fell to the ground, and rolled about on the floor in pursuit of the nuts.

This was the sign for Cesare’s servants to gratify that lust which the sight of the women had aroused in them, and at the given signal they proceeded to do so.

The Pope was helpless with laughter, pointing to this one and that.

Cesare laid his hand over his sister’s. “Take good note,” he said. “It is for you to award the prizes to those who get on best together.”

And she sat there, the fear upon her; the desire to escape never greater than at this hour of shame.

She felt that she did not belong to these Borgias and she longed to escape. They terrified her, and yet she was conscious of that strong feeling within her which she had for them and which she could have for no others. Was it love? Was it dread? Was it fear?

She did not know. All she did know was that it was the strongest emotion in her life.

She was tainted, and Cesare had determined that the stain should be indelible. “You shall not escape!” That was what he was telling her. “You are blood of our blood, flesh of our flesh. You cannot wipe the Borgia stain from yourself, because it is part of you.”

It was over at last. She felt sick with revulsion and loathing mingling with fear. Yet she did as she was bidden. She selected the winners and gave the prizes.

She knew then that she would always do as she was bidden. She knew that the only escape was in flight.

“Holy Mother of God,” she prayed, “send me to Ferrara. Let them come for me … soon … Oh, let it be soon, before it is too late.”



She was waiting, and still they did not come.

The Pope fumed with rage.

“What now?” he demanded. “What should they want now? An appointment in the Church for the bastard Giulio. Something involving no labor and a goodly income. He’ll not get it. A Cardinal’s hat for his friend, Gian Luca Castellini da Pontremoli? He’ll not get that either. What is he waiting for? For the weather to become too bad?”

Lucrezia was beside herself with anxiety. Cesare was ill, but he would recover. She was frightened; the web was tightening about her.

She wrote to her future father-in-law, telling him that she would with the utmost delight arrange to bring the nuns with her when she traveled to Ferrara.

The letters she received from her future husband were kindly, but still no move was made.

What shall I do? she asked herself. Can it be that they have decided not to come?

It was November and surely the journey would be almost impossible in a few weeks’ time. He was deliberately delaying.

The Pope, seeing her downcast looks, sought to cheer her up and, when two mares were put into the courtyard with four stallions, he insisted on her watching from the windows of the Apostolic Palace to see the excitement below.

Several people had gathered to watch the spectacle, and Lucrezia was seen there with her father; this was talked of throughout the city, and Lucrezia believed that it would most certainly reach the ears of those who sought to defame her in the eyes of the old Duke of Ferrara.

Shall I never escape? she wondered.

Then she marveled that she could have thought of it as escape—leaving the home and family which she had loved so much!

She was determined to please her new family. She was in truth begging them not to close her way of escape.

Roderigo had been a matter of great concern to Duke Ercole; he did not want the expense of keeping a child of Lucrezia’s by another marriage. Lucrezia publicly put the boy into the care of her old cousin, Francesco Borgia, who was now Cardinal of Cosenza, and bestowed on him Sermoneta so that the Este family might have no fear that the child would be an expense to them.

And still they did not come.

Lucrezia in desperation declared: “If there is no marriage with Ferrara I shall go into a convent.”

And those who heard this marveled that the young girl who had been so gay, so happy in the possession of her beauty, so careful of its preservation, so enthusiastic in the designing of fine garments, could contemplate giving up her gay life for the rigors of a convent.

They did not know of the fear that had taken possession of Lucrezia.



It was December before the cortège set out and, headed by the three brothers, Ippolito, Ferrante and Sigismondo, made its way toward Rome. The weather was bad and the rain incessant, but there was an easing of that fear in Lucrezia’s heart, for she was certain now that in a few weeks she would be leaving Rome.

Alexander was as excited as a boy. He would burst into Lucrezia’s apartment and ask to see the latest addition to her trousseau; he would exclaim with pleasure as he examined the dresses—the brocades and velvets in shades of blue, russet and morello, all encrusted with jewels and sewn with pearls; he could not refrain from calculating the number of ducats represented by these fine clothes, and would point out to the women: “That hat is worth 10,000 ducats, and the dress 20,000.”

Cesare was to ride out to meet the cavalcade and conduct it into Rome, and fortunately a day before the entry into the capital the weather cleared and the sun shone.

Cesare, splendid on a magnificent horse, surrounded by eighty halberdiers in Papal yellow and black, and soldiers numbering four thousand, met the cavalcade from Ferrara at the Piazza del Popolo and placed himself at the head beside Ippolito. Nineteen Cardinals met them at the Porta del Popolo and many speeches of welcome were delivered. The guns at Castel Sant’ Angelo thundered out as they rode on to St. Peter’s Square and the Vatican.

Here Alexander was waiting and, when the ceremonial greeting was over and he had received countless kisses on his slipper, he put aside ceremony and embraced the Este brothers, telling them with tears of joy in his eyes, of the great delight he had in beholding them.

Then it was Cesare’s duty to lead the distinguished guests to the Palace of Santa Maria in Portico where Lucrezia was waiting to receive them.

She stood at the foot of the staircase in readiness. At intervals on the staircase torches were blazing; the setting was dramatic, for Lucrezia possessed all the showmanship of the Borgias and, no matter how great was her fear at any time, she could usually spare thought for her appearance.

She had chosen to support her, for her escort, a very old Spanish nobleman, dignified, gray-bearded and grizzled, and there could not have been a greater contrast to her feminine fragility. Her brocade dress in her favorite morello color was stiff with gold and jewels; her velvet cloak was lined with sable, and on her head she wore an emerald-colored net lavishly decorated with pearls, while on her forehead a great ruby shone.

The three Este brothers, who had been so eager to see this woman whom they had so often heard called an incestuous murderess, gasped with astonishment as they came forward to kiss her hand.

Ippolito thought her delightful; Ferrante was half way to falling in love with her, and even Sigismondo assured himself that the stories he had heard of her could not be anything but lies.