Light on Lucrezia

Cesare was returning to Rome. He came as a conquering hero, and the Pope was preparing a magnificent ceremony that all might realize his pride in his son.

In truth Cesare was returning in a far from triumphant mood. It was merely to raise money and change his plans that he had been forced to return to Rome, for unexpectedly, Ludovico, being helped by Maximilian of Austria, had reconquered Milan and the French had found it necessary to recall all their troops to the troubled area of Lombardy. As Cesare had been fighting his battles with the help of his French allies he suddenly found his armies so denuded that he had scarcely enough men to leave guarding the towns which he had conquered. Accordingly there was nothing he could do but return to Rome.

But he was not eager for the world to know how much he had relied on the French; therefore Cesare must return in triumph as the victorious Romans had done in the past.

Cesare’s motto was Caesar aut nihil. He was determined to hold what he had gained and gain still more.

Soon after the capture of Forlì, Cardinal Giovanni Borgia had come to the town in order to congratulate his kinsman on his victory; he had however been suddenly seized with a violent sickness, and died within a few hours of being taken ill.

There were whispers of Cantarella and, although there seemed to be little motive, Cesare was suspected of murdering his kinsman. It was known that Cesare needed little motive—a look would suffice to annoy him and bring him to the decision that the one who had given it was unfit to live.

On account of the Cardinal’s death, Cesare decided to enter Rome in mourning. It was an effective spectacle and the people who watched it did so in silence. The carriages—one hundred of them—which came in advance of the soldiers were draped in black; there were no drums nor fifes, and the only sound heard in the streets of Rome was the tramp of feet and the roll of carriage wheels. The Swiss guards wore black velvet, and the great black plumes in their hats made them look like menacing birds of prey as they marched.

Cesare himself was a somber figure in black velvet, its darkness accentuating the bright auburn of his hair and beard. Beside him rode his brother Goffredo with Alfonso who, on the Pope’s instructions, had gone to the gates of the city to ride with Cesare.

Above the soldiers, floated the banners with their emblems of the Grazing Bull and the Golden Lilies of France.

Lucrezia, watching from the balcony, could not take her eyes from the three men—all of them so handsome—Cesare in the center, aloof in his black velvet doublet from the brilliantly clad and bejeweled young men on either side of him.

Lucrezia saw that her handsome husband was nervous. There was in his eyes that expectancy, that furtive horror, which she had noticed before when he was in the company of her brother Cesare.



Cesare had arrived in Carnival time, and the people were given a subject for their revelry which was certain to please the Pope. There were masques depicting Cesare’s victories over his enemies; poems and songs were written of his brilliant soldiery and his daring campaigns.

Cesare was in good spirits. He had no doubt that he would achieve his destiny. He danced with Lucrezia in the presence of his father and their dances were those of Spain. He had renewed his pursuit of Sanchia, and it was reported throughout Rome that they were lovers again. Goffredo worshipped his brother and sought to copy him in everything; he was delighted that his wife pleased the great Cesare, and took to himself great credit for having married her that he might provide Cesare with the best mistress he had ever had.

As for Sanchia, her feelings toward him were mingled; she hated him yet she found him irresistible; and as before, her hatred increased her passion.

But there was one thing which struck Cesare during this time. Lucrezia was no longer a child, no longer so pliable; and he realized with a shock that her loyalty to her husband might prove greater than that which she had for him.

Lucrezia had been present at those occasions when members of the Neapolitan and Milanese factions had put their heads together and plotted against Cesare Borgia. Lucrezia, his own sister, might be working against him!

Cesare noted the Pope’s devotion to his grandson. If the baby was in the Vatican gardens, Alexander would find some pretext for going out to him. He was becoming almost foolish in his adoration of his grandchild, and this was to a certain extent the measure of his love for Lucrezia.

With growing suspicion Cesare began to reassess the state of affairs in the Vatican. His sister’s husband was his enemy and had great influence with his sister, who in her turn had great influence with the Pope.

There was only one person who must be allowed to dominate the Pope; and there was only one whom his sister must serve: Cesare Borgia.

He began to make plans concerning that very handsome but very weak boy to whom they had married Lucrezia.

He found it difficult to be polite to the young fool, and increasingly irksome to see them together, to witness a hundred little signs of their fond and foolish love. The thought of their eagerness for each other drove Cesare to something like a madness, from which even the inordinate sensuality of Sanchia could not relieve him.

He would sit in his rooms above the Pope’s in the Vatican, for on his return to Rome he had not gone to his own palace, and there he would make plans. He would look out over Rome, of which he was now master, as his troops were camped all around the city and in their hands was the law. If any committed a misdemeanor—and a misdemeanor could be an idle word spoken in a tavern against Cesare Borgia—they would not repeat it. The gallows on the St. Angelo’s Bridge was well supplied with hanging corpses, a lesson for all to see.

He was lord of Rome. He was Cesare.

So why should he allow an insignificant and foolish youth to irritate him?



Thunder and lightning rent the darkness over the eternal city. It was the Feast of St. Peter, and there was not a soul to be seen in the streets, for all had scuttled to safety as the first great raindrops had begun to fall. The rain splashed down in the streets and danced back as though in fury. Overhead the sky was black; and in their houses the people trembled.

Alexander was in his apartments with the Bishop of Capua and his chamberlain, Gasparre, executing some formal and unimportant business.

“How dark it is!” he said, looking up. “I cannot see to read.”

“The storm grows fierce, Most Holy Lord,” said the Bishop.

“We shall have to have lights,” replied the Pope. “And see, the rain is coming in through the windows.”

Gasparre was on his way across the apartment to call for lights and the Bishop had gone to the window when the roof immediately above the Papal chair collapsed.

Gasparre cried out in alarm and he and the Bishop, choking with the dust which filled the air, ran to that spot where the Pope had been sitting.

They could not lift the heavy beams, so they ran from the apartment shouting for help.

“The Pope is dead,” cried Gasparre. “The roof has collapsed and he in the chair is buried beneath the masonry.”

Guards and officials were running into the apartments; and it was not long before the news was spreading through Rome: “The Pope is dead. This is the work of God. He has been struck down because of his evil deeds. God has taken his life, as he and his son have taken the lives of so many.”

The people were preparing to riot, as they invariably did on the death of the Pope. The wise ones barricaded themselves in their houses; and guards were placed at the gates of the Vatican.



In the Pope’s apartment men worked hard to lift the fallen masonry.

“He cannot be alive,” they said.

They crossed themselves; they believed that what they saw was the work of God. They were astonished though that God had not taken Cesare with his father. Cesare’s rooms above the Pope’s had been hit; his floor had collapsed and it was under this that the Pope now lay buried; but Cesare had left his apartments only a few moments before the lightning had struck a chimney and a thunderbolt had crashed through the roof.

Cesare heard the news and came hurrying to his father’s apartment.

He was horrified. In those moments he realized that he needed his father as much now as he had needed him all his life. If the Pope died there would be a new Pope, and what of Cesare’s grandiose plans then? How could he carry them out without the help of the Holy Father? Who would respect him without the might of his father behind him?

“Oh my father,” he cried. “You must not die. You shall not die.”

Calling for shovels and axes, he tore at the masonry, his hands bleeding, the sweat pouring down his face.

“My lord,” gasped Gasparre, “His Holiness cannot be alive.”

Cesare turned and struck the chamberlain across the face.

“Work harder!” he shrieked. “He is under there and he is not dead. He is not dead, I tell you.”

Under his orders the men obeyed; sweating and panting they lifted the great beams and at length Cesare discovered a corner of the Pope’s cloak. He seized it with a shout of triumph and in a few breathless minutes Alexander, unconscious and bleeding from cuts, was exposed to their view. Cesare shouted orders. “Help me carry him to his bed. Send for physicians. Let no one delay. If my father dies, so shall you all.”

Alexander was very weak, but he was not dead and, when Cesare knelt down and called aloud his thanks to God and the saints for his father’s escape, he opened his eyes and smiled at his son.

“Oh my father,” cried Cesare, “you are still with us. You must not leave us. You must not.”

His voice had risen to a hysterical cry which the Pope seemed to interpret as a call for help; slowly he smiled, a beautiful smile of reassurance; and those watching said: “These Borgias are not human. They have powers of which we know nothing.”

The doctors said that the Pope had sustained a great shock, that he was suffering from an acute fever, and that there must be more bleeding.

“Then bleed him,” cried Cesare. His eyes glinted threateningly. “His life is in your hands. Forget it not, for I never will.”

He sent for Lucrezia and they sat together in the sickroom, their arms about each other, fearful for the life of the beloved man in the bed.

“You will nurse him, Lucrezia; you only,” insisted Cesare, his eyes wide with fear; for he believed that there might be some to seize this opportunity and attempt to do that to the Pope which he and his son had done to so many. Cesare put his face against his sister’s. “You, I … and our father … we are as one,” he went on. “We must be together … always. Therein lies our strength and our happiness.”

“Yes, Cesare,” she answered.

“Do not forget it, sister. We may be Pope … we may be General … we may be wife and mother … but first—always first—we are Borgias.”

She nodded, and she was afraid. She had seen lights in Cesare’s eyes which terrified her.

But at this time there must be no thought in her head but that of her father’s well-being. It would be her duty and her pleasure to nurse him back to health.



Alexander was a Titan. A few days after the accident, which would have proved fatal to most men of his age, he was sitting up in bed, as merry as he had ever been, with the members of his family about him, his intellectual powers undiminished, receiving ambassadors, conducting matters of Church and State with a vigor which would have been astonishing in a man twenty years his junior. His eyes dwelt more fondly on one member of the family than on any other: his beloved daughter Lucrezia. Cesare was conscious of this.

Alexander had been aware of Cesare’s alarm and grief but he knew the reason for his hysterical emotion was in a large measure due to fear of the loss of that great protective canopy of Papal influence under which Cesare was sheltering. Cesare knew, as did every head of state in Italy, that once that canopy was removed, Cesare and all his brilliant triumphs would not last four days. Cesare had every good reason to keep his father alive.

But the fear in Lucrezia’s eyes was not for her own future. Dear improvident child! she did not think of that. She had laid her hands against his chest and wept in her emotion of love. She had said: “Most beloved, Most Holy Father, how could I endure my life without you!”

It was gratifying to know that his son realized the worth of his father’s protection; but the knowledge of his daughter’s disinterested love was more precious than anything in Alexander’s life at this time.

He loved her more deeply than ever before. His eyes followed her about the room, and he was uneasy when she was not there.

He declared: “I will have none but my daughter to nurse me.”

And when she threw herself beside his bed and declared with tears in her eyes that she would be near him night and day, they mingled their tears, and then because the Pope had never encouraged tears in himself or his family, he held her to him and cried: “For what do we weep? We should laugh, daughter, sing songs of joy, for what father in this world was ever blessed with such a daughter, and what daughter ever had such love from a father as I give to you?”

She must leave Santa Maria in Portico and stay in the Vatican. An apartment must be made ready for her next his own. Then he would rest easily knowing that at any hour of the day or night he had only to call to bring her to his bedside.

There were two who watched with dissatisfaction. Cesare because he could see that his sister’s influence with their father could at any moment outstrip his own; Alfonso because Lucrezia had moved to the Vatican where he was not allowed to join her, and this meant that he must, temporarily, give up his wife to her father.

Alfonso fretted and spent a great deal of time with his friends, those men and women with whom he had associated in Lucrezia’s apartments before the French invasion. They were mostly Neapolitans, who were on the alert, measuring the extent of the alliance between the Borgias and the French.

Cesare, knowing this, told himself that Alfonso was more than an irritation. He was a danger. Lucrezia was devoted to him; what might he not ask of her, and knowing her influence with the Pope, what might come of it?

It seemed to Cesare that Alfonso—insipid youth though he was—was one of his most dangerous enemies.



During that July of the Jubilee year 1500 there were many pilgrims in Rome. Christians were arriving from every part of Europe and many of them, either because of poverty or piety, spent their nights sleeping against the walls of St. Peter’s.

It was a night of moonshine and starlight, and Alfonso was taking supper with Lucrezia in her apartments of the Vatican. They were alone together and Alfonso, saying his last farewell complained bitterly of the need to leave her.

“Very soon, dearest, my father will be recovered,” said Lucrezia. “Then I shall be with you in Santa Maria.”

“He is well enough now for you to leave him,” retorted Alfonso sulkily.

“He needs me here … for a little longer. Be patient, my dear husband.”

Alfonso kissed her. “I miss you so much, Lucrezia.”

She touched his face tenderly. “As I do you.”

“Dearest Lucrezia, the nights seem long without you. I dream still …!”

“Your nightmares, dearest? Oh that I were there to comfort you and tell you there is nothing to fear. But soon, Alfonso … perhaps next week.”

“Next week, you think?”

She nodded. “I will speak to my father.”

“I long for next week.”

They embraced and, as it was approaching midnight, he left her.

With his gentlemen-in-waiting, Tomaso Albanese and his squire, he left the Vatican and came into the Square. It was very quiet, as the place was deserted except for a group of pilgrims who huddled on the steps of St. Peter’s.

“It may well be,” said Alfonso to Albanese, “that this time next week we shall no longer have to make these journeys. My wife will be with me in Santa Maria.”

“I rejoice, my lord,” answered Albanese.

They had moved a little nearer to the group of pilgrims. Alfonso scarcely glanced at them because they were such a common sight; but as he walked on there was a sudden movement, a rustle, the sound of quick footsteps and, startled, Alfonso and his two men suddenly found themselves surrounded.

It happened in a few seconds. The pilgrims had thrown back their ragged cloaks, and their swords were poised ready for action. Alfonso realized that he had been ambushed and that his life was in imminent danger. But he was young and strong, and expert with the sword.

“On guard,” he shouted, and drew his sword, but even as he gave the order his shoulder was pierced, and the hot blood was streaming down the gold embroidery of his doublet.

Albanese and the Squire had drawn their swords and were giving a good account of themselves against the attackers; but the latter had the advantage in numbers, and Alfonso was already faint from loss of blood.

A sword of one of his assailants pierced his thigh, and with a groan he fell fainting to the ground. Two of the “pilgrims” then tried to pick him up and hustle him to a waiting horse, but the gallant Albanese and the Squire, while calling loudly for the Papal Guards, threw themselves into an attack against those who were seeking to remove Alfonso.

There was a shout from the precincts of the Vatican followed by the sound of running feet.

“Disperse!” cried one of the attackers, and they all leaped on to their horses and galloped away as the first of the Papal Guards made his appearance.

“We have been attacked!” cried Albanese. “Our master is in urgent need of attention.”

They picked up Alfonso and, with the help of the guards, carried him into the Vatican.

“My wife …” murmured the fainting Alfonso. “Take me to my wife … and no other.”

Lucrezia was with her father, sitting on one side of his bed while Sanchia sat on the other, and thus it was into the Pope’s bedchamber that Alfonso was carried.

Lucrezia gave a cry of horror as they laid Alfonso on the floor, and then with Sanchia she rushed to him and knelt beside him.

“Alfonso … my dearest!” cried Lucrezia.

Alfonso’s eyes were glazed. He looked appealingly into Lucrezia’s face. “Save me, Lucrezia,” he murmured. “Do not let him come near me …”

Sanchia gave orders to the men: “Call the physicians without delay. Some of you help us to get him to a bed. Bring hot water and bandages! Oh my brother, have no fear. We will save you.”

But he kept his eyes on Lucrezia as he said distinctly so that all could hear: “I know who has sought to kill me. It is your brother … Cesare!”

Then he closed his eyes; and all those in the room believed that he would never open them again.



Alfonso lay in the Borgia Tower, in a room the walls of which had been decorated by Pinturicchio. Sanchia was with him; so was Lucrezia; they had cut away his doublet and staunched the flow of blood while they waited for the physicians to come and dress his wounds.

“Together and alone we will nurse him,” said Sanchia to Lucrezia. “It is the only way if he is to live.”

Lucrezia agreed. She was conscious now of the reality of that terror which had overshadowed Alfonso’s happiness and she was determined to nurse him back to health. She knew against whom she had to protect him, and she was determined to do this.

“I will have beds made for us in this room,” she said.

“Beds for both of us,” added Sanchia. “Lucrezia, if he lives after this night’s outrage, we alone must prepare his food, and we must not leave the room together. One of us must always be here.”

“It shall be so,” said Lucrezia.

They were interrupted by the arrival of the Neapolitan ambassador.

“How fares my lord?” he asked.

“We cannot say yet,” answered Sanchia.

“His Holiness is insistent that I remain while the physicians dress his wounds.”

Sanchia nodded.

“Why are the doctors so long in coming?” cried Lucrezia. “Do they not understand that delay is dangerous?”

Sanchia put her arm about Lucrezia. “My dear sister,” she said, “you are overwrought. They will be here soon … and if he lives through this night … we will save him. You and I together.”

When the physicians came Sanchia drew Lucrezia to a corner of the room while Alfonso’s wounds were dressed and the ambassador looked on.

Sanchia’s voice was cold and angry as she whispered: “Lucrezia, you understand what this means … all that this means?”

“I heard his words,” Lucrezia replied.

“We have to fight him! We have to fight your brother and my lover for Alfonso’s life.”

“I know it.”

“They would have taken him to the Tiber, as they did your brother Giovanni. It is the same method … so successful before. Thank God it failed this time.”

“Thank God,” whispered Lucrezia.

“There will be other attempts.”

“They shall not succeed,” declared Lucrezia fiercely.

“The Pope understands. That is why he insists on the Neapolitan ambassador’s watching the dressing of the wounds. He does not want it said that poison was inserted into his blood by the Papal doctors. You love him, do you not? He is your husband and should be more to you than any other. Can I trust you with my little brother?”

“Can I trust you with my husband?”

Then they began to cry and comforted each other, until Sanchia said: “It is not the time for tears. If he recovers we will have a stove brought into this room, and all that he eats shall be prepared by us. We will stand guard over him, Lucrezia … my little brother, your beloved husband.”

“It is wonderful, Sanchia,” said Lucrezia, “at such a time to have someone whom one can trust.”

“I feel that too,” answered Sanchia.



In the streets the people stood in little groups, discussing the attempt on the life of Alfonso of Bisceglie. In the Vatican there was much whispering and hurrying to and fro.

In the sick-room Alfonso hovered between life and death, and two women with a fierce fanaticism in their eyes stood guard over him. In a corner of that room two beds had been placed, although they were not occupied at the same time. When Sanchia slept Lucrezia was on guard and Lucrezia slumbered while Sanchia watched Alfonso. They had had a field-stove brought into the apartment in readiness, to prepare his food.

Sanchia had demanded that the guards placed outside the apartment should be those whom she was sure she could trust—members of her own household and her brother’s. She sent messages to her uncle, King Federico, telling him what happened, and as a result Messer Galeano da Anna, a noted Neapolitan surgeon, arrived in the company of Messer Clemente Gactula, Federico’s own physician.

By this time it seemed almost certain that Alfonso would live, and now that he was well enough to realize that either Lucrezia or Sanchia was constantly with him and that his doctors were those sent by his uncle, he felt a new confidence and with this came a new strength.

The Pope was a little irritated by his daughter’s desertion of his own sick-room for that of her husband. He hinted that it was a little melodramatic of the two women to watch over Alfonso as though his life were still in danger.

But Alexander was worried. He was fully aware who was responsible for the attack, and this meant that he could only pretend that he wanted his son-in-law’s would-be murderers brought to justice.

It was said in the Vatican and in the streets that if Alfonso recovered from this attack it would not be long before he met with another, for it was clear that Cesare Borgia, the dreaded Il Valentino, was behind this attempt on his life.

They were very anxious days for Lucrezia. How could she help recalling that period of great anguish when she had learned that her lover’s body had been found in the Tiber? She knew who had arranged poor Pedro’s death. It was the same one who had tried to strike down Alfonso.

Sometimes Alfonso would call out in his sleep and she would rush to his bedside to soothe him. She knew that his nightmares were always of threatening danger, and there was one name which he never failed to whisper—Cesare!

Lucrezia decided that she must see her brother; she must make him understand how devotedly she loved Alfonso. Cesare loved her. Had they not always been close? Surely he could not continue to plot Alfonso’s death if he understood how much she loved her husband.

She left Sanchia with Alfonso and went to Cesare’s apartments.

Her brother’s eyes shone with mingled affection and speculation. “My dearest sister, it is rarely that you have given me this pleasure of late.”

“I have been nursing my husband.”

“Ah, yes. And how fares he?”

“He will live, Cesare, if his attacker does not make another and successful attempt.”

“How could that be while his two guardian angels watch over him?” said Cesare lightly. “You look tired, my beloved. You should rest. Or better still, ride with me. What say you … out to Monte Mario?”

“No, Cesare. I must go back to my husband.”

He took the back of her neck in his hands and squeezed gently. “Have you no time for your family?”

“Our father is well again,” she said; “you do not need me, and my husband has been wounded nigh to death. Oh Cesare!” Her voice broke suddenly. “There is a great deal of scandalous talk. People say …” She faltered, and his hands on her neck tightened. He put his face close to hers, and the gleam in his eyes frightened her.

“What do people say?” he demanded.

“They say that he who was behind the killing of the Duke of Gandia was behind the attempted killing of Alfonso.”

She lifted her face and forced herself to look into his eyes.

“Cesare,” she insisted, “what have you to say to that?”

She saw his mouth tighten; she was aware of the intense cruelty in that face, as he answered brutally: “If it was so, there is no doubt that he had his reasons; and I am certain that your little husband deserved his wounds.”

She had been trying to tell herself, against her better judgment, that it could not be Cesare, but she found it impossible to deceive herself longer.

Cesare pulled her to him, his fingers still on her neck, and she suddenly felt that he saw her as a kitten, a pretty playful kitten whose charming ways delighted him when he deigned to be amused by them. He kissed her. “You must not tire yourself,” he said. “But I shall not insist on your riding with me today. I would have you come of your own free will.”

“That will be when Alfonso is quite well,” she answered firmly, disengaging herself.

“In the meantime,” he said, “you and the militant Sanchia will guard him well, knowing that what fails at noon may be successful at night.”

She lowered her eyes and did not answer. Her throat was constricted with an emotion which she ascribed to fear.

Back in the apartment she consulted Sanchia.

“I have been with Cesare, and I know that he will not rest until he has killed Alfonso.”

“I know it too,” replied Sanchia.

“He will make another attempt, Sanchia. What can we do?”

“We are here to prevent that attempt.”

“Is it possible, Sanchia?”

“I do not think,” said Sanchia, “that while you and I are near any will come to attack him. Cesare is suspect. If any were taken in the act and put to the Question they might confess. A confession involving Cesare would not please him.”

“But, knowing Cesare is involved, my father would never allow the murderers to be brought to justice.”

“It would be difficult to murder Alfonso here in the Vatican itself. No, I believe they will wait until he is well, and then they will lure him to some lonely spot. They will attack then. It is later that we have to fear such an attack. What we must guard against now is poison.”

“Sanchia, I am frightened. I see shadows all about me. It is like being alone in the dark when I was very young and peering into the shadows, waiting for wild beasts and ghosts to spring at me.”

“There is a vast difference,” said Sanchia grimly. “These are not ghosts.”

“Sanchia, we must get him out of Rome.”

“I have been turning over plans in my mind for days.”

“Can we do it?”

“We will. As soon as he is well we will have him smuggled out of Rome. We’ll disguise him as one of the chamberlains and send him with a letter which I will write to my uncle Federico. We will do it, Lucrezia.”

“Thank you, Sanchia, thank you for all you have done for my husband.”

“Who,” Sanchia reminded her, “is also my brother. Listen, Lucrezia. When the doctors come tomorrow we will consult with them. You know that little hunchback from Alfonso’s household?”

“He who loves Alfonso so much, and has waited outside this room ever since it happened?”

Sanchia nodded. “We can trust him. He will be able to have horses ready, and as soon as Alfonso’s wounds are healed, he shall escape. Tomorrow we will begin preparations to put the plan into action.”