Light on Lucrezia

Lucrezia was lying on her bed while her women combed her hair. She was nearly six months pregnant and was easily exhausted.

But she was happy. Three months, she told herself, and our child will be born. She was planning the cradle she would have.

“Is it too soon?” she asked her women. “Why should I not have the pleasure of seeing it beside me when I wake, so that I may say to myself: ‘Only eighty-four days … eighty-three days … eighty-two days.…’ ”

Her women hastily crossed themselves. “It would seem like tempting Providence, Madonna,” said one.

“All will be well this time,” Lucrezia said quickly.

Then she was back on one of those unhappy journeys into the past. She saw herself six months pregnant as now, dressed in the voluminous petticoats which Pantisilea, the little maid who had attended her in her convent, had provided for her, standing before the Cardinals and Envoys and swearing that she was virgo intacta in order that she might be divorced from Giovanni Sforza.

“Perhaps,” she told herself, “I am unlucky. My first child unknown to me, being brought up in the care of some woman in this city! (Holy Mother, make her kind to my little one.) And then that little one who was lost to me before I knew whether it was girl or boy.”

But this was different. This child should be given the greatest care. It was alive within her—lively and strong; and everything indicated that this was a healthy pregnancy.

“My lord is late,” she said. “I had expected him before this.”

“He will be with you before long, Madonna,” she was told.

But she waited and he did not come. She dozed. How tired this healthy little one within her could make her feel; she touched her swollen body lightly and smiled tenderly.

“This time all will be well. It is a boy,” she murmured, “certainly a boy. He shall be called Roderigo after the best and most loving father a woman ever had.”

She heard voices in the ante-room, and sat up to listen. Why was it possible to tell by the tone of voices that something was wrong?

“The Madonna is sleeping. Wait until she wakes.”

“She would want to know at once.”

“No … no. She is happier in ignorance. Let her sleep out her sleep.”

She rose and putting a robe about her went to the ante-room. A group of startled people stared at her.

“Something has happened,” she said. “I pray you tell me quickly.”

No one spoke immediately, and she looked appealingly at them.

“I command you to tell me,” she said.

“Madonna, the Duke of Bisceglie …”

Her hand went to the drapery of her throat, and she clutched it as though for support. The faces of those people seemed to merge into one and recede, as one of her women ran to her and put an arm about her.

“He is well, Madonna. No harm has come to him,” the woman assured her. “It is merely that he has left Rome.”

Lucrezia repeated: “Left Rome!”

“Yes, Madonna, he rode out with a small party a few hours ago; he was seen riding South at full speed.”

“I … I understand,” she said.

She turned and went back into her room. Her women followed.



There was a letter from Alfonso.

It was brought to Lucrezia an hour after she had heard the news of his departure. She seized it eagerly; she knew that he would not willingly have run away from her without a word.

She read it.

He loved her. His life had no meaning without her. But he had been forced to leave her. News had reached him of plots to take his life. He knew that if these plots succeeded they would bring the greatest unhappiness in the world to her, and he was more concerned for the unhappiness his death would inflict on her than for anything else, since if he were dead of what consequence would anything be to him? He was unsafe in Rome, as he had always known he must be, but he had allowed his happiness to blind him to his danger; now that danger was so close that he dared wait no longer. It broke his heart to leave her, but they should not long be separated. He implored her to ride out from Rome, as he had done, and join him in Naples. There they would be safe to pursue their idyll of happiness.

Lucrezia read the letter through several times; she wept over it; and she was still reading it when the Pope was announced.

He would not let her rise; he came to her bedside and taking her in his arms, pressed passionate kisses upon her.

He dismissed her women, and then she saw how angered he was by the flight of Alfonso.

“He is a young fool, a frightened young fool,” stormed Alexander; and Lucrezia was aware then that Alexander had lost some of that magnificent calm which had been his chief weapon in the days of his early triumphs. “Why does he run away from a young and beautiful wife like you?”

“He has not run from me, Father.”

“All will say he has run from you. Giovanni Sforza will be amused, I doubt not, and make sure that the whole world is aware of his amusement. And you to have his child in three months! The young idiot has no sense of the position he holds through marriage into our family.”

“Father, dearest and Most Holy Father, do not judge him harshly.”

“He has hurt you, my child, I would judge any harshly who did that.”

“Father, what do you propose to do?”

“Bring him back. I have already sent soldiers after him. I trust that they will soon restore the foolish boy to us.”

“He is uneasy, Father.”

“Uneasy! What right has he to be uneasy? Has he not been treated as one of us?”

“Father, there is trouble brewing. Cesare’s friendship with the French …”

“My little Lucrezia, you must not bother this golden head with such unsuitable matters. It was meant to delight the eye, not muse on politics. This husband of yours has wandered into a maze of misunderstanding because he thought he understood matters which are beyond his comprehension. It is that sister of his and her friends, I doubt not. I trust they have not contaminated you with their foolish notions.”

“Would these notions be so foolish, Father, if there were war with the French?”

“Have no fear. I would always protect you. And I will bring your husband back to you. This is what you want, is it not?”

Lucrezia nodded. She had begun to cry and although she knew that the Pope hated tears she could not suppress hers.

“Come, dry your eyes,” he begged; and as she moved to obey him, Alfonso’s letter, which had been beneath the bed covering, was exposed and the Pope saw it.

He picked it up. Lucrezia hastily took it from him. Alexander’s expression showed that he was a little hurt, and Lucrezia said quickly: “It is a letter from Alfonso.”

“Written since he went away?”

“He wrote it before he went and sent a messenger back with it. It explains why he has gone and … and …”

The Pope clearly longed to lay hands on the letter, and waited for his daughter to show it to him; but when Lucrezia did not, he was too clever a diplomatist to demand it and perhaps be refused. He did not want any unpleasantness with Lucrezia, and he knew now that her husband considered himself his enemy; therefore Lucrezia would be urged in two directions. The Pope was determined to keep his hold on his daughter and knew that he could best do this by continuing to be her benevolent and understanding father.

“I wonder he did not take you with him,” said Alexander. “He professes to love you dearly, yet he leaves you.”

“It is because of the child I carry. He feared that the journey must be made in such haste that harm might come to me and the child.”

“Yet he decides to leave you!”

“He wants me to join him as soon as possible in Naples.”

The hardening of the Pope’s mouth was not perceptible to Lucrezia. Alexander was determined Lucrezia should never be allowed to leave her father for her husband.

He hesitated for a few seconds, then he said: “He cannot be as anxious for your condition as I am. But perhaps he is young and does not realize that child-bearing can be a hazardous experience. I should not allow you, my dearest, to travel so far until your child is born.”

Their eyes met, and Alexander knew then that Lucrezia was no longer a child, and that he had underestimated her. She knew of the existence of rivalries; she was fully aware of the possessive nature of his love for her, and that Alfonso had every reason to mistrust his intentions toward him.

Lucrezia began to cry once more. She could not stop the tears. They were tears of misery and helplessness.

And Alexander, who could not bear tears, kissed her forehead lightly and went quietly away.

Alfonso reached Naples and, in spite of the fact that the Pope demanded that he return at once, he refused to do so; nor would his uncle, King Federico, give him up.

This infuriated the Pope who knew that the whole of Italy would be aware that Alfonso had good reason for being afraid, since he was prepared to leave a wife with whom, it was common knowledge, he was deeply in love.

Alexander had been suffering from fainting fits more frequently during the last year, and there were occasions when the purple blood would flood his face, when the veins would knot at his temples and he would find it difficult to regain that composure which he knew was one of his greatest assets.

This was one of the occasions when he found it impossible to remain calm.

He sent for Sanchia and told her that she might prepare to leave at once for Naples; since the King was determined to retain her brother he could have her also.

Sanchia was astounded. She had no wish to leave Rome, and she immediately made this clear to the Pope.

He did not look at her, and his voice was cold. “We are not discussing your wishes, but mine,” he told her.

“Holiness, my place is here with my husband.”

“Your place is where I say it shall be.”

“Most Holy Lord, I beg of you, consider this.”

“I have already considered, and this is my decision.”

Sanchia lost her temper. “I refuse to go,” she said.

“Then,” reiterated the Pope, “it will be necessary to remove you by force.”

Gone was the urbane charmer of women. Her beauty meant nothing to him. She had never believed this would be possible.

She cried out in humiliated rage: “If I go, I shall take Goffredo with me.”

“Goffredo remains in Rome.”

“And Lucrezia!” she cried. “I shall take Lucrezia and Goffredo with me. They’ll come. Lucrezia longs to join her husband. If my place is in Naples, then so is hers.”

And with a certain satisfaction, for she saw that she had alarmed him, she left him.

Outside the Palace of Santa Maria in Portico a brilliant cortège was preparing to leave. There were forty-three coaches, and among them a splendid litter with embroidered mattresses of crimson satin and a canopy of damask. This was to carry Lucrezia, and had been designed by the Pope himself to afford the utmost comfort to a pregnant woman during a long and tedious journey.

Now Lucrezia was reclining in the litter, and Goffredo had mounted his horse; together at the head of the cortège they would ride out of Rome for Spoleto.

Standing in the Benediction loggia was Alexander himself, determined to see the last of his daughter before she left Rome; his smile was tender and full of affection and he raised his hand three times to bless them before they departed.

Lucrezia was glad to leave Rome. The past few days had been very uneasy. Sanchia had been forced to return to Naples very much against her will, and Lucrezia was aware that this journey to Spoleto was being undertaken because her father feared that Lucrezia and Goffredo might escape him and join their husband and wife in Naples.

They were in benign and tender custody; there was no doubt of it. Surrounding them were attendants who had sworn they would not let them out of their sight, and who would have to answer to the Pope if they escaped.

The Pope had told Lucrezia of this journey she was to make to Spoleto. She was his beloved daughter, he said, and he wished to do honor to her. He was going to make her Governor of Spoleto and Foligno, a position which usually fell to the lot of Cardinals or high-raking priests. But he wanted all the world to know that he respected his daughter as deeply as he loved her; and that was why he was going to invest her with this duty.

Lucrezia knew that this was but half the reason. He was afraid she would run away, and he could not have borne that; he did not wish to make her his prisoner in Rome. So he made her his prisoner in Spoleto. There she would live in what was tantamount to a fortress, and Spoleto—being a hundred and fifty miles north—put a greater distance between Lucrezia and Alfonso than there would have been had she remained in Rome.

She knew too that her continual tears wearied him. He wanted her to laugh a great deal, to sing to him, to amuse him; he could not endure tears.

The journey was arduous, and it took six days to reach Spoleto. There was much discomfort to be faced for one in her condition, even in her crimson mattressed litter and the satin palanquin which the Pope had had the foresight to equip with a footstool.

Yet she was happier than she had been since she heard of Alfonso’s departure, because her father had told her that he would do all in his power to bring her husband to her, and he doubted not that he would bring about this happy state of affairs within a few weeks by sending Alfonso along to Spoleto to keep her company.

It was impossible to doubt Alexander’s ability to achieve what he set out to do, and she believed that before long Alfonso really would be with her.

And when they crossed the meadows and she saw the great castle, dour and formidable, standing high above the town, she felt as though she were going to a real prison; but, she told herself, if Alfonso should join her there, she would be a very happy prisoner.

In the town the citizens were waiting to greet her; they had crowded into the streets to see her entry in her litter under the canopy of gold damask. They were all eagerness to gape at this Lucrezia Borgia of whom they had heard such tales, both shocking and romantic.

Smiling she was carried under the arches of flowers, and listened with intent pleasure—in spite of her weariness—to the speeches of welcome. Although it was early in the afternoon when she reached Spoleto she did not pass between the Torretta and Spiritata Tower until the sun was about to set.

Inside the castle she was taken into the court of honor with its many arcades, where she handed the briefs, given her by the Pope, to the dignitaries assembled there. She listened to more speeches; she was acclaimed as Governor of Spoleto; and while she listened and smiled so charmingly on all, she was praying: “Holy Mother of God, send Alfonso to me here.”

She would stand at a window, looking down on the town or across the ravine to Monte Luco, watching for Alfonso.

Several weeks passed; August was over. It was September, and in November her baby was due to be born.

She thought of Alfonso constantly; she longed for him. And one day in the middle of the month her women aroused her from her sleep, and she heard the trills of joy in their voices. She had not time to rise from her bed before the door was flung open and Alfonso had her in his arms.

They clung together, speechlessly, while Lucrezia’s trembling hands examined his face as though to assure herself that he was Alfonso in the flesh and not some phantom, conjured up in a dream.

“Alfonso,” she murmured at last. “So … you have come.”

He was a little shamefaced at first. “Lucrezia, I don’t know how I could have left you, but I thought it best. I thought …”

She was never one for recriminations. “Perhaps it was for the best,” she said; and now that he was with her, she wanted to forget that he had ever left her.

“Lucrezia, I thought you would join me. Had I known we should be separated so long I would never have gone.”

“It is over. We are together again,” she told him. “Oh, Alfonso, my beloved husband, I believe I shall never again allow you to pass out of my sight.”

Food was brought to them and eaten on Lucrezia’s bed. There was laughter in the apartment. Some of the noblemen and ladies came in and danced there, and while Lucrezia played her lute, Alfonso sang. They were together again, their hands clinging at odd moments, as though they were determined never more to be parted.



The lovers were happy in Spoleto. Alfonso was with her and it was not in either of their natures to alarm themselves by thought of what the future might hold. The Pope had made it possible for them to enjoy this happiness and they accepted him as their loving father.

They consequently did not allow the fact that the French had invaded Italy to worry them. They heard that Ludovico, unable to get help from his ally Maximilian Emperor of Austria, who was fighting the Swiss, had fled from Milan, taking his brother Ascanio with him, and leaving Milan open to the French. Brilliant politician though Ludovico was, he was no fighter, as he had shown during the previous invasion; he could plan, but he needed military leadership if those plans were to be carried out. It seemed as though Louis was going to have a victory as easy as that of Charles a few years earlier.

There came news which did arouse the lovers from their passionate devotion. Cesare was in Milan.

“I shall soon see my beloved brother again,” cried Lucrezia. “I long to hear about his adventures in France. I wonder his bride could bear to part with him.”

And Alfonso, listening, felt again that cold shadow over his life. It had always been Cesare who had alarmed him more than any.

But it was so easy to forget. Lucrezia would bring out her lute; Goffredo would sing with them and they would call in the men and women for the dancing.



Alexander felt elated. Cesare was home, and it would not be long now before he held his beloved son in his arms. The French were in possession of Milan and the Neapolitans were alarmed; but the Pope in the Vatican was well content. Cesare was a kinsman of the King of France, and the French and the Borgias would now be allies.

Alexander had already formed his plans for the future Borgia kingdom which would be his. The time was at hand when it should be seized; Milan, Naples, Venice, all the Italian States and kingdoms would be concerned with protecting themselves from the French. Now was the time for Cesare to step in with the Papal armies. Now was the time to form the State of Romagna. Towns such as Imola, Forlì, Urbino, Faenza and Pesaro (oh yes, certainly Pesaro; they would be revenged on Giovanni Sforza for the rumors he had circulated concerning the Borgia family) should all fall to Cesare. And here was Cesare, in Italy with his French allies, waiting to seize his Kingdom.

There was only one thing which irked Alexander at this time; this was his separation from his daughter. So he sent messages to Spoleto commanding Alfonso to take his wife to Nepi (that town which, at the time of his election to the Papal Chair, he had given to Ascanio Sforza in exchange for his support, and which he had since retaken from him) where he, Alexander, would join them.

Why should not Cesare ride to Nepi from Milan? There he and Alexander could discuss their plans for the future.



Cesare set out from Milan, eager for the reunion with his family. He longed to see Lucrezia again—even though he would have to see her husband as well; he wanted to bask in the warmth of Goffredo’s admiration; but chiefly he wished to hear his father’s plans for his advancement.

At last Cesare was doing what he had always made up his mind to do: he was a soldier, and the Papal forces were to be at his command.

It was exhilarating to feel the Italian air on his face again. In France he had always been conscious that he was in a strange land and that he was continually watched. The French had disliked him; they had inflicted many humiliations on him, and Cesare was not one to forget humiliations.

As he rode along the road from Milan to Nepi he thought of what he would like to do to the students of the Sorbonne, if it were only in his power to punish them. They had staged a comedy based on Cesare’s marriage, and they had taken particular delight in defaming Cesare and the Pope. Louis had declared his wish that this should be stopped, for the comedy, performed many times, was the talk of Paris; he had even sent two of his officials to the capital to prevent its presentation, but the students, six thousand strong, had refused to stop their performance, and Louis himself had at length gone to Paris to prohibit this insult to one who should have been an honored guest.

Cesare could not be revenged on the students, but he would on others. He had a mental dossier of all those who had offended him, even if it was but by a slighting word or a look. They should all die—in one way or another—for it was Cesare’s doctrine that none should insult him and live.

But revenge must wait. First he had his kingdom to conquer, and the great dream of his life had to be realized.

Lucrezia was watching for him as he rode to the castle of Nepi, and was the first to greet him. She was large with child—the birth was a few weeks away—and this irritated him even as he embraced her, as it reminded him of Alfonso, her husband, and all the rumors he had heard of the affection between these two.

“It has been so long, Cesare, so very long,” she cried.

He took her face in his hands and studied it intently. Her face at least had changed little.

“You had your husband and this child to think of,” he told her.

“Do you think anything would stop me thinking of you?”

It was the answer he expected; the sort of answer she had learned to give in nursery days.

The Pope was ready to greet him, taking him in his arms, kissing him fondly, his face quivering with emotion.

“My beloved son, at last … at last!”

“Father, I would it had been earlier.”

“No matter, now you are here, and we are contented.”

Cesare had nothing more than a curt greeting for his brother-in-law; Alfonso was taken aback, the smile of welcome freezing on his face. He glanced quickly at Lucrezia, but Lucrezia, with whom he had shared all emotions since he had rejoined her at Spoleto, was unaware of him. He was conscious of the pride shining in her eyes, pride in this brother of hers.



The Pope and Cesare were closeted together. They bent over maps as they sketched in the kingdom of Romagna.

“One by one these towns should fall to us,” said the Pope. “No doubt some, terrified of war, will surrender without a fight.”

“I shall know how to terrify them,” Cesare told him.

“The Italians are a pleasure-loving people,” went on the Pope. “Charles’s invasion taught us that. They like to parade in fine uniforms; that is beauty and color, and they are great lovers of beauty and color. They love carnivals, mock-battles; they like the parade of conquering heroes … but the true battle … no! I do not think our task will be difficult.”

“I shall accomplish it with ease.”

“You are confident, my son.”

“Should not all generals be confident before the battle? To believe in defeat is to court disaster.”

“You are going to be a great general, my son.”

“Did I not always tell you so? Do not forget, Father, that I have much time to make up for.” His gaze was accusing, and the Pope flinched, feeling suddenly old, as though he had given over the reins to this headstrong son of his and bidden him drive their chariot.

Alexander looked down at the map and traced a line with his finger.

“We shall subdue all the Roman barons,” he said. “They shall all come under Papal authority. You are Gonfalonier of the Church, my son.”

Cesare’s brilliant eyes looked into those of his father. Yes, Romagna would be under Papal control and, as the Pope would be under the control of his son, Cesare would soon be ruler of those States. Nor would his ambition end there.

Cesare intended to unite all Italy and rule as King.



In their bedroom at Nepi Alfonso and Lucrezia lay together. It was early morning and Lucrezia was conscious of the restlessness of her husband.

“Alfonso,” she whispered. “What ails you?”

“I cannot sleep,” he answered.

“Why not, Alfonso?”

He was silent; she raised herself on her elbow and, although she could not see his face, she touched it lightly with her fingers. He took her hand and kissed it passionately. His was trembling.

“What ails you, Alfonso?” she asked again.

He hesitated. Then he lied. “I know not. It must have been some nightmare.”

She kissed him again and lay down beside him.

He knew how deeply she loved her brother—too deeply, so many had said—and he could not bring himself to say to her, “It is the presence of your brother here at Nepi. While he is here I find it impossible to be at peace. It is as though the castle is full of shadows—fantastic, grotesque and horrible—that hang over me. There are warning shadows and threatening shadows. And I dream of Cesare, standing over me with the naked sword in his hand and that half-smile on his face which mocks me and is so cruel.”



There was rejoicing throughout the Vatican, for Lucrezia had come safely through childbirth and the baby was a boy.

He was to be called Roderigo after the Pope, and no one seemed more delighted than the child’s grandfather, who immediately inspected the baby and declared that the little one resembled him in more than name. Pacing up and down Lucrezia’s chamber with young Roderigo in his arms he seemed to have regained all his lost youth. He was already making plans for the boy’s future, and demanded of all those present if they had ever seen a more healthy boy than this grandson of his.

Lucrezia lying back in her magnificent bed in Santa Maria in Portico, content in her child though she was, was exhausted for her labor had been long and arduous. Alfonso remained by her bed, her hand in his, smiling his delight to see the Pope’s pleasure in the child.

Cesare had not accompanied them on their return to Rome, and Alfonso could forget those nights of terror now Cesare was far away.

Outside in St. Peter’s Square were the sounds of soldiers at their drill, for the Papal armies were preparing to march; and although the Pope showed himself enchanted with this new baby, his soldiers were the enemies of the child’s paternal relatives.

Sanchia was in Rome, as Lucrezia had begged the Pope to allow her sister-in-law to return; and unable to deny his daughter her whims Alexander placed no obstacle in the way of Sanchia’s return, and when she came back treated her as though there had been no differences between them.

Lucrezia was delighted to have her with her; Alfonso was more than delighted; he was relieved. He could not have too many friends about him and he trusted his sister completely.

This was the day of the christening of the infant Roderigo, and there was great ceremony in the Palace of Santa Maria in Portico. No one would have guessed that so recently the Pope had declared that the lords of Pesaro, Forlì, Urbino, Imola and Faenza had forfeited their rights to these dominions because they had failed to pay their tithes to the Church, and that this declaration was the sign for Cesare to begin his series of attacks.

All was gaiety in Lucrezia’s palace for the christening of her baby boy. She was too weak to be up, so she lay in her bed among her pillows of red satin embroidered with gold; and the room in which she lay had been hung with velvet of that delicate blue made fashionable by Lucrezia herself and called Alexandrine blue.

Guests came to her bedside—all the most important men and women of Rome; they brought gifts and compliments, and they all declared their good wishes for the baby’s health and prosperity.

Lucrezia was very tired, but she sat up on her cushions bravely smiling while her father looked on with approval. This was his way of showing his love for her child, of telling her that this little Borgia should have his share of that indefatigable love and devotion which Lucrezia knew so well because she had shared it.

Many Cardinals had gathered in the chapel, and when the time for the christening drew near they went in a splendid procession from the palace chapel to the Sistine Chapel which was adorned with Botticelli’s Daughters of Jethro and Perugino’s Handing over of the Keys.

Holding the baby was Juan Cervillon, the brave Spanish Captain whom Lucrezia had come to look upon as her friend; and very splendid was the little Roderigo in his ermine-edged gold brocade.

At the altar the Archbishop of Cosenza (Francesco Borgia) took the baby from Cervillon and carried it at the font while Cardinal Carafa performed the baptismal ceremony.

It had been the Pope’s wish that after the ceremony the baby should be handed to a member of the Orsini family, that all present might take this as a sign of his desire for friendship with them.

The effect was spoilt when the young Roderigo, having behaved perfectly from the moment he left Santa Maria in Portico and all through the ceremony in the Sistine Chapel, set up a wail of anguish as the Orsini took him, and continued to cry fiercely until he was taken into another pair of arms.

An evil omen, said the watchers. The Orsinis should beware of the Holy Father and he of them.



The days which followed the baptism were uneasy, and even Lucrezia and Alfonso could not escape the tension.

Lucrezia’s friend, Juan Cervillon, came to her the day after the baptism and told her that he had been long from his home, and wanted to return to Naples that he might see his wife and family.

“You must go, Juan,” Lucrezia told him. “It is not to be expected that you should be separated from them for so long.”

“I have asked the permission of His Holiness,” he told her.

“And it has been given?”

“Yes, but somewhat reluctantly.”

Alfonso, who had joined them and stood listening, said: “That is to be understood. You have served him well.”

“I shall never forget,” said Lucrezia, “that it was you, Juan, who persuaded King Federico to allow my husband to come to me at Spoleto.”

“I was merely the ambassador of His Holiness.”

“But you worked well for us, I know, dear Juan. Do not slip away without saying good-bye to us; and when you say good-bye I shall want you to promise that you will not stay long away from us.”

He kissed her hand. “I promise that,” he said.

That day Cesare came home. He was eager to raise more money for his campaign, and spent long periods shut in with the Pope discussing his plans.

He came to see Lucrezia, told her that she looked wan, and was curt to Alfonso as though he blamed him for Lucrezia’s fragility; and he scarcely looked at the baby.

It was reported to Lucrezia that he had cut short the Pope’s eulogies on his grandson.

“He is jealous,” said Alfonso to Lucrezia, and she noticed that the fear was back in his eyes and that when Cesare was near he was a changed man. “He is jealous of my love for you and yours for me, of your father’s love for you and our child.”

“You are wrong,” soothed Lucrezia. “He is over-anxious because I have taken so long to recover from little Roderigo’s birth. We have always been such an affectionate family.”

“An affectionate family!” cried Alfonso. “So affectionate that one brother murders another.”

She looked at him with that hurt expression in her eyes which made him hasten to soothe her. “I spoke without thinking. I repeated idle gossip. Forgive me, Lucrezia. Let us forget I have spoken. Let us forget everything but that we love and are together.”

But how was it possible to forget those fears when a terrible tragedy occurred two days later.

Alfonso heard of it and came pale-faced and trembling to Lucrezia.

“It is Juan Cervillon,” he stammered; “he will never go home to Naples now. His wife and children will never see him, as they hoped. He was stabbed to death late last night when leaving a supper party.”

“Juan … dead! But it was only yesterday that he was with us.”

“Men die quickly in Rome.”

“Who has done this terrible thing?” cried Lucrezia.

Alfonso looked at her but did not answer.

“They will bring his murderers to justice,” Lucrezia said.

Alfonso shook his head and said bitterly: “People recall the death of your brother, the Duke of Gandia. He died after he left a supper party. Juan has already been buried in Santa Maria in Transpontina in the Borgo Nuovo, and it is said that none was allowed to see his wounds.”

Lucrezia covered her face with her hands. Alfonso went on almost hysterically: “He was heard, shortly before he died, talking scathingly of the affair of Sanchia and your brother Cesare, and it is said that he knew too many Papal secrets to be allowed to take them out of Rome.”

Lucrezia kept her face hidden. She did not want to see the haunting fear in her husband’s.

The death of Juan seemed to be the beginning of a new terror. There were several deaths—from stabbing, in alleys after dark; some bodies were recovered from the river; and there were many who passed mysteriously away and in such a manner that none could say how they had died. They were attacked by sicknesses of varying symptoms; some seemed to become intoxicated and die in their sleep. There was one fact which was the same in the cases of many mysterious deaths; those who suffered from them had supped at the Borgia table not long before their deaths.

The Borgias had a new weapon; all Rome knew what it was: Poison. They had their special apothecaries working for them, compounding and perfecting from their poisons recipes, it was said, which they had brought with them from Borja, their native town on the borders of Aragon, Castile and Navarre; and these secrets they had learned from the Moors. Spanish Moors and subtle Italians, a formidable combination, and from it was concocted Cantarella, that powder which was becoming feared by all whose daily life brought them into contact with the Borgias.

Ferninando d’Almaida, the Portuguese Bishop of Ceuta, was the next victim of note. He had been with Cesare in France, and it was said that he had seen Cesare humiliated more than once. He died mysteriously in camp with Cesare.

Meanwhile Cesare’s military operations were going forward with the utmost success, and he was now ready to turn his attention to Forlì which was in the hands of the Countess of Forlì, Caterina Sforza, reputed to be one of the bravest women in Italy.

She was fully aware that she could not hold out against Cesare. Imola, Caterina’s first stronghold, had already fallen to his troops, and she sent messengers from Forlì to Rome imploring the Pope for mercy.

The Pope had no intention of granting mercy since Forlì must fall to Cesare, and was chosen to be an important part of the Kingdom of Romagna; so he had the messengers arrested, and when they were tortured they “confessed” that the letter they brought to the Pope had been treated with a poison which was intended to bring about his speedy death.

There was consternation in the Vatican. When Lucrezia heard the news she ran to her father and burst unceremoniously into his presence. She flung herself into his arms and kissed him again and again.

“There, there!” soothed Alexander, stroking the long golden hair. “What is there to feel so excited about?”

“They might have killed you!” cried Lucrezia.

“Ah,” said Alexander, “it is worth the risk to see how much my beloved daughter cares for her father.”

“Father, life without you would be intolerable.”

“And you a wife! And you a mother!”

His eyes were alert, watching. The desired answer was: What are these to me without my beloved, my sacred Holy Father, my affectionate earthly father?

She kissed his hands and he felt her warm tears on them. Such tears did not displease him.

“All is well, my dearest,” he murmured. “All is well. We are too wily for them, we Borgias.”

“That they should dare!” she cried.

Then she stopped, as she remembered the rumors she had heard of how men supped at the Borgia tables and said good-bye to life. She thought of poor Juan Cervillon, who had been so gay and happy one day, anticipating his return to his family, and whose body was in the grave less than twenty-four hours later.



Cesare marched on Forlì, determined to revenge the threat to his father’s life. He would have no mercy on Forlì, whose Countess had dared attempt to give the Borgias a dose of their own medicine. She must understand the might of the Grazing Bull.

From the battlements of her castle Caterina watched the soldiers encamped below. Her case was hopeless but she was not going to give way until she had inflicted great damage on the enemy. It was not in Caterina’s nature to give way without a fight. She was the illegitimate daughter of Duke Galeazzo Maria Sforza, and thus her ancestor was the famous condottiere, Francesco Sforza. She had been only sixteen when she was married to Gerolamo Riario, nephew of Pope Sixtus who made him Count of Forlì. This man had been notorious for his cruelty and, shortly after his marriage to Caterina, the people had risen against him, entered his castle, stripped him and thrown his naked body from the towers. She was afterward married to Giacomo de Feo who met a similar fate at the hands of the mob; but this time Caterina was older and, determined on revenge, assembled her soldiers and pursued her husband’s murderers to their village, where she ordered that every man, woman and child in that village should be hacked to pieces; and this was done. That was the sort of woman Caterina had become.

Now she stood in the forefront of the battle directing her soldiers, fighting till the last, extracting every sacrifice from Cesare and his men, knowing that in the end, because of their superior weapons and numbers, they must defeat her.

When Cesare broke through and forced his way into the castle she was waiting for him, her long hair falling in disorder about her shoulders, a mature woman but a tempestuous and beautiful one.

“I surrender,” she said with dignity.

“Having no alternative,” Cesare reminded her.

Cesare came close to her and stood watching her; their eyes met and his were full of latent cruelty.

This was the woman who had attempted to poison his father, so her messengers had said when the Question was applied to them. He would let her see what befell those who thought they could oppose the Borgias.

Caterina measured her opponent. She had heard stories of the chivalry of the French, and she remembered that when Giulia Farnese had fallen into the hands of Yves d’Allegre, that gallant French captain, she had emerged unscathed.

“I demand,” she went on, “that I be handed over to the French.”

“Why so?” said Cesare. “Are you not my prisoner? Do not imagine that I shall let you go.”

Caterina thought in that moment how glad she was that she had sent her children away. For herself, she was a woman who had enjoyed many adventures and it had been said with some truth that since the death of her husbands she had surrounded herself with men who would work wholeheartedly for her, their only reward being a share of her bed.

She understood the meaning in those eyes of his. She was not alarmed; in fact she was excited; although she would not let him know this. His very cruelty and the rumors she had heard of his barbarism made an appeal to her wild nature.

“What would you have of me?” she asked, putting out a hand to ward him off.

He struck down the hand and she winced.

“I demand the droit de seigneur.”

Caterina’s eyes flashed. “Not content with the rape of my city you would rape my person?”

“I see you understand your predicament perfectly,” said Cesare.

“I ask you to leave me.”

“It is not for you to ask, but to submit,” said Cesare, his eyes glowing with sudden lust as he seized her by the shoulder. She would fight, this wild woman, and he would enjoy an encounter such as those he had shared with Sanchia.

He called aloud: “You may all leave me with the Countess.”

She sought to evade him, and the struggle began.

Cesare’s laughter was demoniacal. She would fight, and she must surely be the loser. She should remember that he had stormed the castle; she should know that every stronghold must fall before him.

It was more than a sexual adventure, this; it was a symbol.