Light on Lucrezia

VII

THE GREAT CALAMITY



When Lucrezia returned to the little rooms of the balcony Ercole Strozzi was waiting for her. Lucrezia had regained her fragile beauty, the hair-washings had been resumed and it was as golden as it had ever been, but she herself had changed subtly. She was more spirituelle.

She seemed pleased that Alfonso was not in the castle. After his return from the pilgrimage he was making a tour of the military fortifications of Ferrara, and as he probably felt that until Lucrezia was completely well again there would be small chance of getting a healthy heir for Ferrara, he would therefore be better occupied with the military and his stray mistresses.

Lucrezia was by no means unhappy at being left alone. The musical evenings continued. There was a truce between herself and the old Duke. She had sent to Rome for Jacopo di San Secondo, who was one of the most famous players of the viol in Italy; and the Duke often came to her apartments to hear the music of this man.

Strozzi continued to bring exquisite materials from Venice, and displayed great interest in the making up of these. He could discuss clothes for hours and make suggestions which delighted Lucrezia.

He would read poetry to her and very often these verses were the composition of Pietro Bembo. He talked often of Pietro.

“Poor Pietro, he lives a lonely life now in my villa at Ostellato. It is good for his work, however. He speaks of you often.”

“That is because you have often spoken of me to him.”

“How could I help that? My thoughts of you occupy a large part of my waking life.”

“My dear Ercole, I cannot tell you what your friendship has meant to me. Knowing you has changed my life here in Ferrara.”

“There are many jealous of my favor with you.”

“There will always be those to watch my actions and hate me for them.”

“There is one who envies me more than any other. Can you guess who? No, you will not, I see. It is Pietro Bembo. I will confess something. Those verses I read to you today—they were written for you.”

“But he has never seen me. How could he write such verses for one he has never seen?”

“I have talked of you so much that he has a clear picture of you. If you visited him he would know you at once.”

“I cannot believe it.”

Ercole Strozzi looked at her slyly. “Why not put it to the test?”

“Call him to Ferrara!”

“Then he would know you at once. No, I mean visit him at Ostellato.”

“How could I do that!”

“It is simple. A short journey by barge. There is peace and solitude in my villa at Ostellato. Why should you not make the journey? Surprise him.”

She laughed. “I should enjoy seeing our poet,” she answered. She turned to Strozzi. “I believe you are continually trying to plan pleasures for me.”

Strozzi smiled. He wanted to see them together—the amorous poet with his neo-Platonic leanings; this Lucrezia, fresh from the pains of childbirth and fever, whose husband could never give her anything but physical satisfaction.

It would be interesting to watch the reaction of these two; so interesting that Strozzi had long planned it, for he knew it would be irresistible.



Bembo was wearying of the quiet life, although it was true that when he was in Venice he had longed for it. He had come here on Strozzi’s invitation mainly to escape from his Helena. She was charming but she was demanding, and he was satiated with physical love. Handsome and famous, sought after by courtiers and rich women, he had felt the solitude of the country to be inviting.

He would stay until Strozzi came again, and then he would explain to him his feelings. It would be churlish not to explain in person to his friend after he had offered him the hospitality of his villa.

He was sitting in the shade, murmuring verses to himself, when he heard the sound of voices. There was music too, and feminine laughter. A party was sailing down the river. He did not bother to go and look, and suddenly he was aware of her coming toward him. She was dressed in cloth of gold and there was an emerald on her forehead; her long golden hair was caught in a net which was sewn with pearls.

She said: “Good day to you, poet. You know me?”

He knelt at her feet, took her musk-scented hand and kissed it. “There is only one who could look thus, Duchessa.”

“Strozzi said you would know me. I have so enjoyed your poems. I could not resist the opportunity of telling you so.”

“You have come with friends?”

“Some of my women and other attendants. They await me in the barge.”

“Then you have come in simplicity. I am glad. For I live simply.”

“I know. Strozzi told me.”

“He has told you much about me?”

“So much that I cannot believe we are now meeting for the first time. I also know you through your works.”

“I am so overwhelmed that I forget the duties of a host. You will take refreshment?”

“Perhaps a goblet of wine.”

He clapped his hands and commanded a slave that it should be brought to them in the garden; they sat in the shade drinking, and talking mainly of his poetry.

She enchanted him. She was ethereal, so different from the woman rumor had painted for him. She was so gentle, even more fragile than usual after her recent illness, and that she should be one of the notorious Borgias seemed incongruous while it added to her attractions.

“I cannot stay long,” she told him. “We must get back to Ferrara before dark.”

He said he would show her the herb gardens; he was interested in herbs and had made additions to Strozzi’s collection. And as they walked through the gardens he made poetry for her, and this told her that her coming was something he would never forget as long as he lived.

“You will visit me again here?” he asked.

She smiled a little sadly. “I could not come often. It would be noticed. Then, I do not doubt that I should be forbidden to come. But why should you not come to Ferrara? You could meet your friend Strozzi, and there are often parties in my apartments. You would be very welcome.”

He took her hand and kissed it fervently. Then he walked with her to the barge.

She stood looking back as they glided away; he stood watching. They were both aware of a tremendous attraction, different from that which either had ever felt for any other person.



Pietro Bembo came to Ferrara, and he was seen each night in the little rooms of the balcony.

As he was famous thoughout Italy his presence added luster to those gatherings. Bembo was accustomed to adulation and it affected him little as he was completely absorbed in his friendship with Lucrezia. For the first time in their lives each was indulging in an absorbing friendship which was as yet Platonic. It was a friendship of the mind, of spiritual love; and it was felt by both that should it descend to a physical level it would deteriorate and become another love affair such as each had known before.

Lucrezia, weak from that recent illness which had almost proved fatal, Pietro seeking a sensation which would lift his muse to even greater heights, found in each other all that, at this time in their lives, they longed for. Each of them felt exalted—together, apart from the rest of the world.

Strozzi looked on, content. This was as he wished. He had brought them together; he could watch them indulge in their unusual relationship and know that it was what he had intended. He could feel godlike; he could say to himself: I took these two prominent people and brought them together, I knew that they would behave thus, and it is what I wished. It would be interesting to see how long the friendship lasted on this level, how long before passion gained control and brought them tumbling from their lofty eminence down to earthly pleasures. Two beautiful sensual people, mused Strozzi; how long before they went the way of all flesh?

He believed he could keep them where they were or bring them down to Earth. It was a sensation of power which appealed to him mightily, which soothed the pain in his leg, which eased the fatigue which came so readily because of that pain, which made him say to himself: Ercole Strozzi, if you can rule the lives of two such people, why could you not rule the world?

Angela, so abandonedly in love with Giulio now that she made no secret of the fact that she spent half her nights in his company, was delighted by Lucrezia’s friendship with Pietro.

“Why, cousin,” she cried, “Giulio tells me that his sister Isabella is furious because Pietro comes here. She prides herself that all great poets are her property. How glad I am that we have secured him.”

Lucrezia smiled gently at her exuberant cousin. Poor wayward Angela, thought Lucrezia, she would never understand the delights of spiritual love.

“Giulio tells me that Isabella is offering him bribes to go to her in Mantua,” went on Angela. “She wants him there, not only because he is a great poet, but because he is so devoted to you. At last you have a chance to pay her back for all the insults she heaped on you at the time of the wedding. It must give you great pleasure to contemplate that.”

But spiritual love was certainly beyond Angela’s comprehension. It seemed a strange way for two lovers to behave … to meet only to quote poetry.

“It will not last,” she said to Nicola. “You wait. Soon they will be lovers in the true sense.”

Nicola was not sure. Angela was such a sensual little animal, a madcap who might one day find herself in a difficult position. Nicola, now that her love affair with Ferrante had faded, was quite ready to believe in the beauty of that new kind of love practiced by her mistress and the poet. Indeed the character of Lucrezia’s little court had changed. There was less pandering to sensation. Instead of aromatic baths and leisure hours spent in Moorish shirts, there was continual reading of poetry and playing of music.

Only Angela went on in the old way.

One day Ercole Strozzi gave a grand ball in his palace in Ferrara to which the whole court was invited. Alfonso, back from his inspection of the fortifications, was present; so were all his brothers.

Pietro Bembo was naturally a guest, and it delighted Strozzi to watch his two Platonic lovers together. Lucrezia had changed. In this sedate ethereal young woman it was almost impossible to recognize the girl who, during her wedding celebrations, had taken her castanets and danced the erotic dances of Spain for the amusement of the court.

Strozzi guessed that Alfonso was thinking that it was time they attempted to get an heir for Ferrara, and decided it would be interesting to see how Lucrezia kept these two relationships apart—that entirely physical one which she would be forced to share with her husband, and the Platonic one with Bembo.

It seemed that Lucrezia had discovered the art of dividing her personality. She showed no revulsion for Alfonso, and at the same time she preserved that unworldly air of a woman spiritually in love with an ideal.

Duke Ercole’s agreement to pay her 12,000 ducats a year was proving to be a small victory for Lucrezia since he paid the difference in kind, as he had said he would; and there was continual complaint about the quality and short weight of the goods he supplied.

Lucrezia however, immersed in her devotion to her poet, could not concern herself, as she had previously, with material matters; she accepted the stinginess of Duke Ercole without complaint; and while she continued to receive Bembo at her gatherings Duke Ercole left the court for a quiet sojourn in Belriguardo, taking with him the State ledgers so that in the peace of his retreat he could go over his accounts and try to discover a way of saving money.



In Rome Cardinal Ippolito was learning how dangerous life could be for those who incurred the dislike of the Borgias, and those days when Lucrezia lay between life and death were very difficult for him, as the Pope made no secret of his suspicions regarding the Este family. He railed against Duke Ercole in the presence of Ippolito, and it was not easy to stand by and listen to complaints against one’s own father.

The Pope had given Ippolito an income of 3,000 ducats a year that he might live in the style expected of him during his stay in Rome, but he did not allow Ippolito to forget that he was a hostage for the good behavior of the Este family toward Lucrezia.

“I begin to doubt,” said the Pope ominously one day, “whether my daughter is being treated with due consideration in Ferrara.”

Ippolito shivered at those words. He was not a coward, but the rumors concerning the Borgias’ methods of disposing of their enemies were enough to make anyone who might be deemed an enemy shiver. The terrible Cantarella was not a myth. During his stay in Rome Ippolito had seen strange things happen to men who ate at the Borgia table. Others disappeared, to be discovered later in the Tiber. It was slyly said of Alexander in Rome that he was the true successor of St. Peter, for without doubt he was a fisher of men.

Sanchia, Ippolito’s mistress, warned him.

“If Lucrezia dies you should not stay another hour in Rome,” she told him.

“Of what use would my death be to them?” demanded Ippolito. “Could it bring Lucrezia back to health?”

Sanchia looked steadily at her lover. “If Lucrezia dies,” she said, “the Borgia will no longer be the Grazing Bull. It will be the mad bull and the devil himself could not protect a man who stood in the way of that animal.”

“The Pope is a man of good sense. He would see that my death could avail him nothing.”

“Do you know nothing of the affection between members of this family? They are not normal, I tell you. They are a trinity … an unholy trinity if you like, but they are as one. If you have not seen them together, then you would not understand.”

“It would seem,” said Ippolito lightly, “that you are tired of your lover and would wish him gone, so that you might spend your time with others.”

“Your presence here, my love, would not prevent me spending my time with others.”

“And does not,” said Ippolito lightly.

She laughed. “You would be unique if you could alone satisfy me. But I am fond of you, my little Cardinal. That is why I warn you. Be ready to fly.”

There were times when he did not take her seriously; others when he did. When Alexander read letters from Ferrara and he saw the emotion in his face, he believed what Sanchia told him.

But the news was good. Lucrezia recovered. Bells rang throughout Rome, and the Pope went from church to church giving thanks that his treasure was spared him.

He was not going to wait any longer, he declared. He was going to Ferrara as soon as he had made his preparations to do so, and those preparations were to begin at once.

He went about Rome, a delighted smile on his face, a song on his lips. He was like a young man again; and watching, Ippolito was inclined to agree that there was something superhuman about these Borgias.

Cesare returned to Rome, and Ippolito prepared to welcome him, for there had been a time when friendship had blossomed between them; it was not long ago, at the time of Lucrezia’s departure for Ferrara, when they had discovered a mutual dislike for Cardinal’s robes.

Cesare came riding into Rome, and the faces of the people were averted and cautious while they hailed him as the conqueror. There were whispers of the cruelties he had inflicted on his victims, of the harsh rule of his new territories; and it was known throughout Rome that even Alexander now bowed to Cesare, and it was the son, not the father, who ruled the city.

Ippolito was with Sanchia when Cesare called on her. Tension was apparent, and Sanchia, chatting lightly with her two lovers, was aware of this.

Ippolito left her with Cesare. He was not a coward, but he could not escape that sense of threat which seemed now to emanate from Cesare wherever he went.

Cesare was clearly not pleased to find him with Sanchia, and it was obvious that any friendship which had ever existed between them was rapidly fading.

Sanchia sent for him a few hours later.

She put her arms about his neck, and her blue eyes were affectionate.

“Ippolito, my dear Cardinal,” she said, “I shall miss you bitterly, but take my advice and leave Rome at once.”

“Why so?” asked Ippolito.

“Because I have loved this handsome body of yours dearly, and I do not wish to think of it as a corpse. Go straight from here, take your friends and ride out of Rome. Ride for Ferrara as fast as you can. You may be in time to save your life.”

“From whom?”

“You waste time in asking. You know. He strikes quickly. He is so practiced. No need now to make plans. He merely says, Method number one, or two, or three … and the person who has irritated him is no more.”

“I have not irritated him.”

“You have been my lover. Occasionally Cesare decides that he does not like my lovers.”

Ippolito stood staring at her.

“Ippolito!” she cried. “You fool! Go … go while you have time. Give my love to Lucrezia. Tell her I miss her. But hesitate not a moment. I tell you, your life is in danger.”

Ippolito left her and went down to where his groom was waiting for him with two squires. They were nervous. He saw that. The whole of Rome was nervous, and all those who caused annoyance—however slight—to Cesare Borgia should beware.

Within an hour Ippolito was riding away from Rome.

Pietro Bembo was now recognized as Lucrezia’s court poet. They exchanged letters, cautiously written yet brimming over with love and devotion; they were both careful to keep their relationship on its Platonic footing, both fearing that to change it would in some measure degrade it.

Those were happy days for them both. They lived for each other; and Lucrezia felt that she had never been so peacefully happy as she was at this time.

She could not understand how she, who had taken such delight in physical love, could find this contentment in such a different relationship. Perhaps she missed her family very much; perhaps when she was with one who loved her carnally she remembered them too vividly. She was, after all, still seeking that escape, that opportunity to be herself—and herself alone—which had made her long to leave Rome for Ferrara.

Ippolito arrived and, although she had during the first weeks of their meetings been attracted by him, she was disturbed by his presence at court.

He was determined to be her devoted brother-in-law. All her brothers-in-law were her devoted friends, but Ferrante and Giulio were always busy with their love affairs, and Sigismondo with his religion, so that they had no time to pry into her affairs.

Ippolito however was ready to be very interested, and she feared his curiosity concerning her friendship with Pietro. There was scarcely a person at court who would believe in its Platonic nature, and Lucrezia was aware that there were many who would like to catch the lovers in a compromising situation so that they might explode this story of Platonic love between a poet and a Borgia.

Moreover the Ippolito who returned did not seem the same man as the Ippolito whom she had known in Rome. Nor was he. He had run away from Cesare Borgia and he was ashamed of himself. Always haughty and quick tempered, these qualities seemed to have been magnified by what had happened to him. He was charming to Lucrezia and bore her no grudge because it was her brother who had made him run from Rome, but his conduct in Ferrara was at times rather like that of Cesare himself. For instance when he imagined himself insulted by one of Alfonso’s soldiers he flogged the man so unmercifully that he almost beat him to death. Alfonso was furious, but the harm was done before he could intervene, and Alfonso was not one to make much of what could not be mended.

It seemed to all in Ferrara that the Cardinal must be treated with the utmost respect lest his anger should be aroused and that happen to them which had happened to Alfonso’s soldier; which was exactly the impression Ippolito had wished to create.

Ippolito was now at Lucrezia’s side most of the day, which made it difficult for her to snatch those precious hours alone with Pietro, but Strozzi was doing his best to make communication easy between the lovers; one day he wrote a letter to Pietro in which he described conversations between himself—Strozzi—and Lucrezia, and told of the flattering things which had been said of Pietro. Lucrezia read the letter before it was sent and, because Strozzi had deliberately not signed it, she wrote her name at the bottom so that it should be known that she endorsed all that it contained.

That letter was an admission of the love, bordering on the passionate, which existed between the two.

But Ippolito, always at her side, was making meetings more and more difficult.

There was secret correspondence between them now, and because Lucrezia knew that she was surrounded by spies she signed herself as FF, by which she was to be known to Pietro in the future.

These difficulties and subterfuges were conducive to Platonic love, and Lucrezia’s happiness seemed to flower during those months.



Strozzi, seeing this love affair, which had been of his making, drifting into a backwater, could not resist trying to change its course.

It was during the heat of August when he came to Lucrezia and found her with Ippolito. He had heard that Pietro Bembo was sick of a fever and he wondered how deep this Platonic love of Lucrezia’s went. Was it an idealistic dream of which Bembo merely happened to be material manifestation; or did she really care what became of him as a man?

It was too interesting a problem for Strozzi to ignore.

So he said in front of Ippolito: “I have bad news, Duchessa. Poor Pietro Bembo is sick, and it would seem that his life is in danger.”

Lucrezia rose; she had turned slightly pale.

“Poor fellow,” said Ippolito lightly, but he was alert.

“I must go to see that he has all he needs to help him recover,” said Lucrezia.

“My dear sister, you should not risk infection. Let some other do what is necessary.”

Strozzi was watching Lucrezia, watching the panic shown in her eyes.

She loves the man, thought Strozzi. Leave them together in his bedchamber and they will forget this elevated talk of spiritual love.

“He is my court poet,” said Lucrezia, recovering her poise. “I owe it to him to see that he has comfort now that he is sick.”

“Delegate someone to visit him,” suggested Ippolito.

Lucrezia nodded.



The streets were quiet and deserted, the heat intense, as Lucrezia’s carriage made its way to Bembo’s lodgings. Hurriedly she left the carriage and entered the house.

He was lying in his bed, and his heart leaped at the sight of her.

“My Duchessa,” he cried. “But … you should not have come.”

“How could I do otherwise?” She took his burning hands and kissed them.

His eyes, wide with fever and passion, looked into hers.

She sat by his bed. “Now,” she said, “you must tell me exactly how you feel. I have brought herbs and ointments with me. I know how to make you well again.”

“Your presence is enough,” he told her.

“Pietro, Pietro, you must get well. How could I endure my life without you?”

“Take care, my beloved,” whispered Pietro. “There is plague in the city. It may be that I suffer from it. Oh, it was folly … folly for you to come here.”

“Folly,” she said, “to be with you?”

They held hands and thought of the dread plague from which he might be suffering and might impart to her. To pass together from this life in which they had loved with all purity and an emotion of the spirit, seemed a perfect ending to their perfect love.

But Lucrezia did not want to die. She wanted both of them to live, so she refused to consider this ending and busied herself with the remedies she had brought.

His eyes followed her as she moved about his apartment. He was sick—he believed himself to be dying—and he knew that he loved her with a love which was both spiritual and physical. Had he been less weak there would have been an end to their talk of Platonic emotion. His sickness was like a flaming sword which separated them from passion. He could only rejoice in it because it had brought her to his side, while he deplored it; and as he looked into her face he knew that she shared his thoughts and emotions.

“It will be known that you have been here,” he said.

“I care not.”

“We are spied on night and day.”

“What matters it? There is nothing to discover. We have never been what would be called lovers.”

They looked at each other longingly; then Pietro went on: “I shall never know the great joy now. Oh, Duchessa, Lucrezia, my love, I feel our love will remain forever unfulfilled.”

She was startled, and suddenly cried out in an access of passionate grief: “You must not die, Pietro. You shall not die.”

It was a promise. Pietro knew it, and a calmness seemed to settle upon him then; it was as though he were determined to throw off his fever, determined to live that he might enjoy that which so far had been denied him.



Pietro’s recovery was rapid.

Within a few weeks he was ready to leave Ferrara, and Strozzi was at hand to offer his villa at Ostellato for the convalescence.

Before he left, Lucrezia had decided that she too would leave Ferrara for a short rest in the quiet of the country. Alfonso was once more visiting fortifications; Ippolito had his duties at court; and Giulio was the only member of the family who was free to accompany her. This he did with the utmost pleasure, since Angela was of the party.

So Lucrezia set out for the villa of Medelana, which was close to Strozzi’s at Ostellato; thus during that convalescence the lovers could frequently enjoy each other’s companionship.

There, in the scented gardens or under the cool shade of trees, they could be together undisturbed. Lucrezia would set out for the Strozzi villa with Angela and Giulio in attendance; but when they arrived and Pietro came out to meet them, Guilio and Angela would wander off and leave Pietro and Lucrezia together.

Thus in those golden days of August they mingled the spiritual with the physical, and Lucrezia believed that she had come at last to perfect happiness.

During those warm days in the gardens at Ostellato she lived solely in the present, taking each day as it came, refusing to look beyond it, because she dared not.

She would treasure, as long as she lived, the scents of the flowers, the softness of the grass at Ostellato; she would remember the words he had written for her, the words he spoke to her.

“If I died now,” he told her, “if so great a desire, so great a love were ended, the world would be emptied of love.”

She believed him; she assured him that the love he felt for her was no greater than that she felt for him. Each was conscious that there was so much to be lived through in a short time.

And so passed the happy days of Pietro’s convalescence and Lucrezia’s escape from Ferrara.



In Rome Alexander was preparing for his visit to Ferrara. He felt younger than ever. He had numerous mistresses and he had proved that he was still capable of begetting children. Never had seventy-two years sat more lightly on a man than they did on Alexander. He was beginning to believe that he was immortal. The prospect of the long and tedious journey did not give him a twinge of uneasiness. He felt that he was at the very pinnacle of his powers.

Cesare came to Rome. He stayed with his father and there were many intimate encounters. Cesare declared that he would remain in Rome that he might join in the celebrations which were to be given in honor of Alexander’s eleventh anniversary as Pope. This was not quite true. Cesare’s relations with the French were not so cordial as they had been. Spain was beginning to play a bigger part in Italian politics. She had been content to look on while Southern Italy was in the hands of the Aragonese, but if they were unable to hold the territory, then the King of Spain must step in to prevent its falling under French domination.

If Spain was to be victorious over the French their King decided that it was imperative for the Borgias to cut their alliance with France—and what more natural than they should turn to the Spanish who were, in no small measure, their own people? In this uncertain state of affairs it might be that Cesare would have to rely on his own efforts to hold the kingdom of Romagna, and he was going to miss French support quite disastrously.

This meant that he was going to need a great deal of money to keep his armies intact, and accordingly Alexander fell back on the old method of creating Cardinals who were ready to pay dearly for their hats. In this way he made a profit of 150,000 ducats in a very short time.

There were other methods of raising money, and it was noticed that, at this time when the Borgias were hard-pressed, many rich people died mysteriously.

The very rich Venetian Cardinal, Michiel, was given a poisoned draught by a certain Asquinio Colloredo who had been paid to administer it by the Borgias. Michiel died, and his vast fortune went to the Pope and proved very useful.

But a great deal of money was required for the armies of the new Duke of Romagna, and Cantarella had a big part to play in obtaining it.

There was a feeling of perpetual insecurity among those who knew their deaths could bring profit to the Borgias. Cardinal Gian Battista Orsini was suddenly accused of plotting to poison the Pope and lodged in Castel Sant’ Angelo. He denied this charge and was tortured in the hope that he would confess. It would have pleased Cesare and his father to be able at this time to pin the charge, of which they had so often been suspected, on someone else. But Cardinal Orsini refused, even under torture, to confess; and the powerful Orsini family were infuriated that one of them should be so treated. They realized however that the Papal State was now under the complete domination of Cesare, and that this brutal man led his father in all things.

They knew that the real reason for these persecutions was the fact that the Orsini family were rich, so they offered a great reward for the release of the Cardinal. The Cardinal’s mistress loved him dearly and it happened that in the possession of this woman was a pearl of great price, so famous that it was known throughout Italy. The woman appeared before the Pope and offered him this pearl for the release of her lover.

The Pope, gallant always, smiled at the woman, for she was very beautiful: “I envy the Cardinal,” he said, “in his possession of your love. This pearl you offer is unique. You know that.”

“Give him back to me, and it is yours.”

“I could refuse you nothing,” answered the Pope.

Cesare was furious when he heard that the Pope had agreed to the release of the Cardinal.

He raged about his father’s apartments. “He will disclose the fact that he has been tortured. There will be more evil rumors concerning us than ever. Moreover, we want the death of this man.”

Alexander smiled serenely at his son. “There are times when I feel you do not understand your father,” he murmured.

“I understand you well,” stormed Cesare. “You have only to hear a request from the lips of a pretty woman and you must grant it.”

“We have the pearl. Do not forget that.”

“We could have had the pearl and his life.”

The Pope was smiling pleasantly. “I see we think alike. This lovely woman must receive her lover, since I have promised her that. Already he has been given his goblet. She will receive her lover this day. I did not say whether he would be alive or dead. We have this priceless pearl and, in exchange, our little friend will have the Cardinal’s corpse.”

Other members of the Orsini family had been murdered recently. These were Paolo Orsini and the Duke of Gravina. The Orsinis were friends of the French, and Louis, furious when Alexander put Goffredo in charge of a company and sent him against the family, declared that his friends must be no more molested. Alexander ignored him.

It was during August when Cardinal Giovanni Borgia of Monreale died suddenly. The Cardinal was a very rich man; he had been a miser, and his death revealed that he was even richer than had been hoped. The Pope and Cesare could not fail to be delighted with his wealth which fell into their hands.

A few days after the death of this Cardinal there came to Cesare and his father an invitation to a supper party in the vineyard of Cardinal Adriano Castelli da Corneto outside the city.

Corneto was one of the richest of the Cardinals and was having a palace built for him in the Borgo Nuovo by the brilliant architect Bramante. He urged the Pope and Cesare to come, that they might first inspect the building which he was sure would be of great interest to them, and afterward retire to his vineyard for the party, which should not be large but nevertheless worthy of Their Eminences.

Cesare and his father were delighted with the invitation. They made their plans.



Cesare had his men in every important household in Rome. He issued orders that a dose of Cantarella should be slipped into the Cardinal’s wine. Not a big dose. The Cardinal should not be immediately smitten. His death should not occur until a few days after the banquet.

They set out for the Borgo Nuovo where, at his unfinished house, Cardinal Corneto was waiting to receive them.

“It is a great honor,” murmured the Cardinal. “I appreciate your coming on such a night. The heat is overpowering.” The Pope laughed lightly, implying that the heat did not disturb him; he was as strong as a man half his age.

Cesare, admiring the work, declared that Bramante should build a house for him, and his smile was sardonic as he glanced at his father. Bramante was an artist; he should be allowed to finish his work, but it would not be for Corneto; it would be for the Borgias. It was a situation which appealed to Cesare. The poor fool was boasting of his treasures, little knowing that they would not long be his to boast about. But both the Pope and his son showed a deep and unfeigned interest in everything they saw. The wealth of Corneto would be a fine acquisition.

“Come,” said the Cardinal at length, “let us ride to my vineyard. ’Tis thirsty work, on such a night, inspecting a palace in the process of being built.”

“I confess to a thirst,” said the Pope.

So they came to the vineyard where the alfresco supper was ready for them.

“We will first slake our thirst,” cried Corneto; and Trebbia wine was served.

The Pope was very thirsty; he drank deeply of the wine; Cesare watered his a little, and Corneto watered his considerably, as did the few others present.

When the feasting began Cardinal Corneto gave no sign of the uneasiness he was feeling as he covertly watched his guests.

How heartily the Pope’s laughter rang out! How smugly contented was Cesare! Did it never occur to them to count their enemies? Did they not realize that there might be people who were ready to risk their own lives for revenge? They had made life cheaper, yet they did not understand this. There might be a slave whose daughter or son had been taken by Cesare for half an hour’s amusement, or perhaps had offended the Lord of Romagna in some way and had lost a hand or a tongue because of it. Were Cesare and his father so ignorant of human nature that they thought a slave had no feelings? Such a man, who had suffered through loved ones, would be ready to risk twenty lives, if he had them, for a glorious moment of revenge.

And the Cardinal himself? He had possessions which were envied, and his life was in danger. It did not seem to him an unworthy action to save the lives of others which were threatened while he saved his own.

He knew he could trust his servant who had good reasons to hate the Borgias. The powder which the Borgias had intended should be put into Cardinal Corneto’s wine should be put into that of the Pope and his son. But the Cardinal had decided that all his guests must take a little of the poison so that every one at that supper table should suffer slightly. Then it might be believed that the malady which he intended should kill the Pope and his son would appear to have been caused by some poison in the air, for at this time of the year the condition of the Roman streets had a poisonous effect and many people suffered “summer sickness” on account of it. But even if it were suspected that the Borgias had died of poison, everyone would be ready to believe that there had been a mistake and the wine intended for the Cardinal had been given to the Borgias.

The Cardinal was waiting for the effect of that poisoned wine, but it seemed to have none whatever on the Pope who had drunk it without water. He continued to amuse the company with his brilliant conversation and when he left both he and Cesare seemed unaffected.

All through the next day—it was the 11th of August—the Cardinal waited in vain for news from the Vatican of the Pope’s death. He called on the Pope to find that Alexander was his jovial self.

Is it true, wondered the Cardinal, that these Borgias have supernatural powers? Are they really in league with the devil?



The Pope awoke early on the morning of the 13th August. For the moment he could not remember where he was. He tried to rise and as he did so was stricken with a terrible pain in his abdomen.

He called to his attendants, who came running to his bedside.

“Holiness,” they began, and stopped, to stare at him.

The Pope tried to demand why they stared, but he found it difficult to form the words.

“Help me … Help me … to rise,” he muttered.

But when they tried to obey him, he sank back swooning on the bed, and for some minutes he lay there, the sweat pouring from his body, the pain so overwhelming him that he could think of little else.

Then that dominant will asserted itself, as always in moments of crisis it had. He lay very still, fighting pain and sickness, forcing himself to remember who he was: Alexander the invincible. Alexander who had conquered the Sacred College and ruled the Papacy, Alexander whose son was one day going to rule Italy and the world.

And because of that great power within him which he had nourished until he really believed it was invincible, Alexander triumphed over his pains. He began to think clearly of what had happened during the last few days, and he said to himself: “I have been poisoned.”

He thought of the supper party, of sly-eyed Corneto. Could it be possible that someone had blundered? Or was the blunder deliberate? He remembered the visit to the half-built palace, and how thirsty he had been. He remembered sitting at the table, and the slave who had handed him the wine.

Was it a mistake? If so … he was doomed. No, he was not. Other men might be. Not so Alexander. He could not die yet. He dared not die. Cesare, not yet secure in Romagna, needed him. Lucrezia needed him. How would she be treated in far-off Ferrara if her father was not waiting to avenge any insult directed against her? He must not die.

The pain was coming in waves, and he knew he was fighting with Cantarella, that old friend turned enemy.

He stammered: “Go to the Duke of Romagna, and bid him come to me. I must have speech with him at once.”

He was trying to concentrate on the fight, but the enemy was a bitter one.

Cantarella seemed to be mocking him: Now you know, Holiness, how it has been with others. This torment was inflicted a hundred times on your enemies. Now, by some fluke of fortune, it is for you to suffer.

Never, thought the Pope. It shall not happen to me. Nothing can defeat me. I have risen above all my difficulties. Corneto shall suffer for this. When Cesare comes.…

Men were coming into the room but Cesare was not with them. Where was Cesare?

Someone was bending over the bed. His voice sounded like a whisper, then a roar.

“Most Holy lord, the Duke of Romagna is sick … even as is Your Holiness.”



Cesare, twisting in agony on his bed, cried out: “Where is my father? Bring him to me. This instant, I tell you. If he is not here within five minutes someone shall suffer.” But his voice had sunk to a whisper and those about his bedside looked on, feigning horror; they believed that Cesare Borgia was on his death-bed.

“My lord Duke, the Pope has sent for you. He cannot come to you. He too is sick.”

The words danced in Cesare’s brain like mocking devils. “He too is sick.” So they had both drunk of the wrong wine. He remembered even as his father had. The thirst after the visit to the half-finished palace in the Borgo Nuovo, the pleasure of the shady vineyard, and the cool sweet wine.

He tried to rouse himself. A trick had been played, a foul trick, he thought. He wanted vengeance.

He cried: “Send for Cardinal Corneto. I would speak with him. Bring him to me at once. Tell him it would be wiser for him not to delay.… Holy Mother of God …” he whispered, “this agony … it is hell … surely hell.”

The news was brought to him. “Cardinal Corneto cannot wait on your lordship. He is confined to his bed with a sickness similar to your own.”

Cesare buried his face in his pillows. Someone had blundered.



There were whispers throughout Rome.

“The Pope is dying.”

Outside the Vatican the citizens waited. When the moment came they would rush into the papal apartments and strip them of their treasures. There were usually riots in Rome when a Pope died, and this one was the richest of all Popes.

All through that day they waited, the question on every lip: “How fares His Holiness?”

He was fighting, they heard, fighting, with all his fierce energy, for his life. They were not normal, these Borgias; they had made a pact with the devil. Clearly the Pope and his son had taken a dose of their own medicine; who could say whether that dose had been intended for them or whether they had taken it by mistake? That was of no moment now. The important matter was that Alexander was dying.

And in his apartments immediately above those of his father, the dreaded Cesare Borgia was fighting for his life.

Great days were about to begin in Rome.



Cesare could hear the murmur of prayers in the apartment below him. Down there men were praying for the Pope’s life. He was ill, on the borders of death, and even his giant constitution was weakening.

Cesare lay weak with pain, refusing to think of death, wondering what he would do if his father died. He was no fool. He knew that he had been bolstered up by his father’s power, his father’s wealth; he knew that when towns opened their gates to him it was not entirely due to his own military skill or the fear he had contrived to instil; it was the knowledge of the power of the Papacy.

If that power ceased, what would happen to Cesare Borgia? Whom could he trust? He could not leave his bed, but he guessed that even now people were gathering outside the Vatican, that many a man and woman in the city was praying for his death.

Never had he felt so weak as he did at that time, never had he been so certain of all he owed to his father.

There were two men in his room now. He called to them and they came and stood beside his bed. One was his younger brother Goffredo, and it was gratifying to see the anguish in Goffredo’s eyes. Goffredo, whose wife had been Cesare’s mistress, had the Borgia devotion to the family; to him the most important person in the world was Cesare. There were tears now in Goffredo’s eyes, and he was not wondering what would become of himself if Cesare and his father died; he was grieving for his brother.

“Brother,” said Cesare, “come closer. You see me prostrate here when I should be on my feet. You see me sick when I have need of all my strength.”

Goffredo cried: “I will be your strength, brother. But command me and I will obey.”

“May the saints preserve you, Borgia brother.”

Goffredo’s eyes shone with pride, as they always did when he was called Borgia. The greatest insult that could be hurled at him was to suggest that he did not belong to that family.

“Who is that in the shadows, brother?” asked Cesare.

“Your good servant, Don Micheletto Corella.”

“Ah,” said Cesare, “bid him come forward.”

Micheletto Corella knelt by the bed and took Cesare’s hand. “My lord, I am yours to command.”

“How fares my father?” said Cesare. “Come, I would have the truth. Do not seek to soothe me. This is no time to soothe.”

“He is very sick.”

“Sick unto death?” demanded Cesare.

“Were he an ordinary man, one would say so. But His Holiness is superhuman. It is said there is a slight hope that he will throw off the effects of the poison.”

“God grant he will. Oh my father, you must not die.”

“He’ll not die,” cried Goffredo. “Borgias do not die.”

“If it is humanly possible to survive, he will do it,” said Cesare. “But we must be ready for whatever should happen. If my father dies, you must immediately get possession of the keys to the vaults, and my father’s treasure must be carried to a safe place. Brother, my friend, if my father should die, you must get those keys before the people know. Once they have stormed the Vatican there will be no hope of saving my father’s treasures.”

“I will do that, my lord,” answered Corella.

“And in the meantime my father and I must appear to be recovering. Do not tell any how sick we are. Say that we have had a slight attack of fever, probably due to the poisonous August air.”

“Many who were at the Corneto party have taken to their beds. The Cardinal is saying that it is due to the poison in the air, and that the sooner Leonardo da Vinci, your fortress engineer, can do something about his drains, the better.”

“Let them say that. So other guests are afflicted, eh? But not as my father is … not as I am. I find that very suspicious. But say nothing. Tell all that we are recovering. Listen! Who is that coming?”

“Some of the Cardinals from the Sacred College; they come to ask after you and the Pope.”

“Prop me up,” said Cesare. “They must not know how sick I am. Come … we will laugh and chat together. It must be as though in a few days I shall leave my bed.”

The Cardinals came in. They had visited the Pope, and the disappointed expressions on their faces made Cesare feel exultant; it seemed that Alexander too had realized the importance of impressing them with the belief that he and his son were suffering from a slight malaise from which they would soon recover.



Such was Alexander’s strength of mind and body that, only two days after he drank the poisoned wine, he was able to sit up in his bed and play cards with members of his household.

Cesare in the rooms above heard the laughter below and exulted.

Never before had he realized the greatness of this father of his; and the sweetest sound in the world, to Cesare that day, was the laughter which came from the Pope’s bedchamber as the cards were played.

Corella and Goffredo came to him to tell him what was happening.

“You should see the faces of some of them,” cried Goffredo. “They can’t hide their disappointment.”

“I trust you noted who they were,” said Cesare. “When I rise from this bed they shall be remembered.”

Cesare lay back and, ill as he was, he smiled.

None can overcome the Borgias, he was thinking. No matter who comes against us, we will always win.

It occurred to him that the poison had not affected the Pope as much as it had himself. Yet the Pope had drunk the wine undiluted, and he had weakened his with water. Perhaps this foul disease, which had dogged him since his early youth, was largely responsible for his condition.

When he was well enough to visit his father—although it seemed that his father would probably be the one to visit him—he would show him more tenderness than he had of late. He would insist that the Pope must take greater care of his health. Alexander was that strong stem from which the Borgia power had grown. That stem must not be broken yet.

He could have made merry with his brother and his trusted captain if he did not feel so ill.



Alexander woke in the night.

He cried out: “Where am I?”

His attendants hurried to his bed.

“In your bed, Holiness.”

“Ah,” he said, “I wondered.”

Then he murmured something which sounded like: “I have come to see the children, Vannozza. You too … and the children … and Giovanni … Giovanni.…”

The attendants looked at each other and whispered: “His mind has wandered to the past.”

He was a little better when morning came. He heard Mass and received Communion.

He then muttered: “I feel tired. Leave me, I beg of you. I would rest.”

Goffredo and Corella heard that the Pope was resting and did not seem so well as he had the day before. They did not tell Cesare, who had had a painful night, as they did not wish to worry him.

That day the atmosphere in the Vatican was oppressed by gloom which did not seem entirely real. It hid expectancy and perhaps hope and some jubilation.

The Pope was seen to be very weak and listless; the alertness seemed to have vanished from that vital face; he had changed a great deal in a few hours, and now that the veil of vitality was removed he looked like a very old man.

One of his attendants bent over him to ask if there was aught he wished for.

He put out a burning hand and murmured: “I am ill, my friend. I am very ill.”

All the light had gone from those once-brilliant eyes and the man in the bed was like the ghost of Alexander.

Night came and the Cardinals were at his bedside.

“He should be given Extreme Unction,” it was said; and this was done.

Alexander opened his eyes. “So I have come to the end of my road,” he said. “There is no earthly path open to me now. Farewell, my friends. Farewell, my greatness. I am ready now to go to Heaven.”

Those about his bedside looked at each other with astonishment. There was no fear in the face of this man who many had said was one of the wickedest who had ever lived. He was going, so he believed, to Heaven where he appeared to have no doubt a specially warm welcome would be waiting for him. Was he not Roderigo Borgia, Alexander VI, Christ’s Vicar on Earth? He did not see the ghosts of the men whom he had murdered. He saw only the gates of Heaven open wide to receive him.

Thus died Roderigo Borgia.



Those about the bed were startled when the doors were flung open and soldiers under the command of Don Micheletto Corella came in.

“We come to guard His Holiness,” said Corella. And turning to the Cardinal Treasurer, who was at the bedside, he cried: “Give me the keys of the Papal vaults.”

“On whose orders?” demanded the Cardinal.

“On those of the Lord of Romagna,” was the answer.

There was silence in the chamber of death. The Pope could no longer command. In the room immediately above, that tyrant, his son Cesare, was lying near to death. There was one thought in the minds of those who had been disturbed by Corella: The Borgian reign of terror is over.

“I cannot give you the keys,” answered the Cardinal Treasurer.

Corella drew his dagger and held it at the throat of the man whose eyes involuntarily turned to the ceiling. Corella laughed.

“My master grows nearer health each day,” he said. “Give me the keys, Eminence, or you’ll follow His Holiness to Heaven.”

The keys dropped from the man’s fingers. Corella picked them up and made his way down to the vaults to secure the treasure before the mob entered the Vatican.



Cesare lay on his bed cursing his sickness.

He knew that the servants were already stripping his father’s apartments of rich treasures. Corella had secured that which was in the vaults, but there was much that remained.

Throughout Rome the news was shouted.

“The Pope is dead! This is the end of the Borgias!”

All over Italy those lords and dukes who had had their dominions taken from them to form the kingdom of Romagna were alert.

Cesare was not dead, but sick in his bed, unable to be on his guard; and, if ever in his life he had needed his health and strength, he needed it now.

There would be change in Rome. They must be ready to escape from the thrall of the Grazing Bull.

Cesare groaned and cursed and waited.

“Oh my father,” he murmured in his wretchedness, “you have left us alone and unprotected. What shall we do without you?”

If he felt well he would not be afraid. He would ride out into Rome. He would let them see that when one Borgia giant died there was another to take his place. But he could only groan and suffer in his sick bed, a man weak with illness, the greatest benefactor a man ever knew lost to him, his kingdom rocking in peril.



The delights of Medelana were suddenly shattered.

Lucrezia was being helped to dress by Angela and some of her women, when one of her dwarfs came running in excitedly to tell her that a distinguished visitor was arriving at the villa, none other than Cardinal Ippolito.

Lucrezia and Angela looked at each other in dismay. If Ippolito stayed at the villa it would put an end to that delightful intimacy between Medelana and Ostellato.

“We should send a message to Pietro immediately to warn him,” whispered Angela.

“Wait awhile. It may be that my brother-in-law is paying a passing call.”

“Let us hope he has not come to spy for Alfonso.”

“Hasten,” said Lucrezia. “Where is my net? I will go down to meet him.”

But Ippolito was already at the door. He stood very still, looking at Lucrezia; he did not smile, but his lips twitched slightly; it was as though he was desperately seeking for the right words, and in that moment Lucrezia knew that some terrible catastrophe to herself had occurred.

“Ippolito,” she began, and went swiftly to his side.

There was no ceremony; he laid his hands on her shoulders and looked into her face. “My sister,” he began. “Oh my dearest sister, I bring bad news.”

“Alfonso …” she began.

He shook his head. “The Pope, your father, is dead.”

Her eyes were wide with horror. It was impossible to believe that he who had been more alive than any other could now be dead. He had seemed immortal. She could not accept this dire calamity.

Ippolito put his arm about her and drew her to a chair. “Sit down,” he said. She obeyed mechanically, her expression blank. “He was after all,” went on Ippolito soothingly, “by no means a young man. Lucrezia, my dearest sister, it is a terrible shock, but you will understand that it had to happen some time.”

Still she did not speak. She looked like a person in a trance. It was as though her mind was refusing to accept what he said because to do so would bring such grief as it would be impossible to bear.

Ippolito felt that he had to go on talking. Her silence was unnerving, more poignant than words would have been.

“He was well,” said Ippolito, “until a few days before his death. He went to a supper party with your brother on the 10th August. It was in the vineyards of Cardinal Corneto. Two days later he was taken ill. It was thought at first that he would rally, and he did for a while. But there was a relapse, and he died on the 18th. As soon as the news came I rode over to tell you. Oh Lucrezia, I know of the love between you. What can I say to comfort you?”

Then she spoke. “You can do nothing to comfort me because there is no comfort now that life has to offer me.”

She sat idly staring ahead of her.

Ippolito knelt beside her, took her hand, kissed it, told her that he and his brothers would care for her, that though she had lost a father she had others who loved her.

She shook her head and turning to him said: “If you would comfort me, I pray you leave me. I can best bear my grief alone.”

So Ippolito went, signing to her women to leave her also. She sat alone staring ahead, her blank expression slowly changing to one of utter despair.



She crouched on the floor. She had wept a little. “Dead,” she whispered to herself. “Dead, Holiness. So we are alone. But how can we endure life without you?”

There had never been a time when he had not been there. She had sheltered beneath his wing; he had always been benign, always tender for her. He was an old man, they said, but she had never thought of his death; she had subconsciously thought of him as immortal. The great Cardinal of her childhood whose coming had brought such joy to the nursery, the great Pope of her adolescence and early womanhood, feared by others, loved so devotedly by herself, and who had loved her as it seemed only a Borgia could love a Borgia! “Dead!” she murmured to herself in a bewildered voice. “Dead?” she demanded. It could not be. There could not be such wretchedness in the world.

“I should have been there,” she whispered. “I would have nursed him. I would have saved him. And while he was dying I was here, making merry with a lover. He was dying, dying, and I did not know it.”

Pietro Bembo seemed remote. This Platonic love, which had blossomed into passion during the summer weeks of his convalescence, what was it compared with a lifelong devotion, a deep abiding love of Borgia daughter for Borgia father?

I should have been at his side, she told herself again and again.

Now she must think of the last time he had held her in his arms. That room in the Vatican when he had held her as though he would never let her go; outside, the snowy street, the impatient horses champing their bits and pawing the ground. The last farewell!

How could life ever be the same again?



They were afraid for her. They did not know how to comfort her. She would not eat; she would not sleep. She remained in her apartments, crouching on the floor, looking back into the past, remembering; her golden hair falling loose about her, just as it had been when Ippolito had brought her the news.

When Pietro Bembo came riding to the villa her women were relieved. Here was one who might comfort her.

He went to her and found her crouching on the floor.

“Lucrezia!” he cried. “My love, my love!”

She burst into wild sobbing then, and buried her face in her hands.

He knelt and put an arm about her shoulders. “I have heard,” he whispered. “I have come to share this grief with you.”

But she shook her head. “It is mine,” she said. “Mine alone. None can share it or understand its depth.”

“My dearest, to see you thus, so steeped in wretchedness, breaks my heart. Do you not see that it is I who am in need of comfort?”

She shook her head.

“Leave me,” she said. “I pray you leave me. There is nothing you can do to help me but leave me with my grief.”

He tried again to comfort her, but there was no comfort for Lucrezia. There was none who could understand the depth of her grief. There was none who could realize the height, the depth and breadth of that love of Borgia for Borgia.